


Fallen Skies

by crimscntears



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, game of thrones
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Depression, Elia deserves better (canon fate in some one shots forgive me), Elia is an angel no one deserved, Elia isn’t forgotten!!, Elia’s marriage wasn’t annulled because the disrespect is high on that one, F/M, Forbidden Love, I can’t write battle scenes, I will mull over like everything Jaime’s done lmao deal with it, Interwar Years, Jaime and Elia friendship bc we stan an iconic duo, Jaime lannister appreciation, Lyanna Stark Lives in some of these, M/M, More political shit than war, No one likes Arthur, No one likes Rhaegar, PTSD, Political Intrigue, Robb Stark lives but that has nothing to do with the story, War, We all love Jaime the Kingmaker, anti! Rhaegar, anti! robert, fuck rhaegar, i just want Jaime to be happy, idk if I blame Lyanna or not I’m still working out my thoughts, kingdom - Freeform, maybe some mild smut idk, the only characters I actually like in this are Jaime and Tyrion, very unplanned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimscntears/pseuds/crimscntears
Summary: Perhaps all of our fates are just cut from one string, and each string has its branching paths, a thousand different futures and possibilities that could have been. No matter how many skies have fallen the players of the Great Game find themselves tangled within the other’s embrace, much to the chagrin of all else. Perhaps Elia Martell had been fated to die by entities unknown, cruel and callous, and perhaps Jaime Lannister is meant to be naught more than a disgraced knight who’d dreamt of virtue with naught to show for it. In some lives Lyanna Stark is the victim of a madman and in another she is a willing participant. Robert Baratheon may think with his cock, maybe his heart. Brandon Stark perished for the unconditional love he bore for his sister. Arthur Dayne is a turncloak to his motherland in some lives and the tragic hero in another. Ashara Dayne is a wailing woman beneath the surface of rippling waves in some stories, lest she be a fair lady whose heart had been ripped from her chest. But all agree that Rhaegar Targaryen is a madman. So many strings with uncut threads.
Relationships: Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark, Jaime Lannister/Cersei Lannister, Jaime Lannister/Elia Martell, Jaime Lannister/Lyanna Stark
Comments: 15
Kudos: 65





	1. Broken Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite all odds, Lyanna Stark survived. Forced back to the Capitol with shame hanging over her like an unraveling tapestry, the Stark girl has to face her demons head on. She’s been told nothing but to hate Jaime Lannister yet he may just be her salvation.

Despite all odds, Lyanna Stark survived. In spite of her harrowing labour and the hell she went through with Rhaegar Targaryen, she is here. Whisked away from the tower of joy by Ned, she was taken to the Capitol first and foremost on her command knowing she’d have to face him eventually. She had never liked Robert much but she’d never disliked him either, yet now his face contorts into a fury when he first sees Ned and she decides she hates him. Because how could he condone the brutal murder of children? What would he wave done to her boy?

And before she knows it she’s wedded to a man she despises. Because of him she has to hide her son, because of him she’s hated even more by the Lannisters who she has no doubt will be plotting to take her crown. And she hopes they do for this is a miserable existence but she will fight for her son.

Robert had been inisistent on sending Jaime Lannister to the wall but his father had reminded the now King that his throne was ensured because of his orders. Robert had then planned to pardon him from the Kingsguard, not trusting a man who had forsaken his vows. Lyanna had stopped him from doing that, stating it’d be smart to keep a Lannister close. Truthfully, she doesn’t know why she didn’t want him pardoned when she’s been told nothing but to hate him. But for one moment she looked into those green eyes and his facade broke, allowing her to see the fear she felt herself. And he did what no man had the guts to do, kill the luney King.

So here they are, Jaime Lannister acting as Lyanna’s sworn sword on her own command. They never speak but there is a mutual assurance between them. She likes to think she knows him, somewhat at least, from the way his brows furrow whenever his sister is mentioned or whenever he grimaces when the king flaunts his whores about and from how his eyes harden when he’s referred to as Kingslayer.

Their dynamic changes one day.

Jaime stands outside the King’s chambers, bored out of his mind. Lyanna subtly observes him before walking into the chambers. Robert, in a drunken haze, lies beneath Delena Florent. Upon Lyanna’s entrance he looks as though he is the one betrayed. “Pity, the bedding’s ruined.” Her husband flinches under her gaze before glaring with eyes of steel. Only her eyes remain emotionless and she finds that couldn’t care less, Robert can bed as many whores as he wants just to get under her skin but it won’t work.

“How can you be so cold?” he says achingly as if he’s the one wronged.

“I would never, not after everything you’ve done for me,” she says blankly while attempting a poor curtesy. “Have the bedding changed.”

He merely nods his head and she walks out, bumping into Jaime who looks as if he’d overheard everything she’d said. He confirms her suspicions by smirking, and she decides she likes him because he isn’t one of Robert’s dogs. Maybe he can be a confidant.

“I’ll have someone see to your command.” He says laughingly.

“Send it to Delena Florent.” As expected, Jamie’s smirk grows wider and she understands why the maidens giggle over him. Perhaps she would have only two years ago. For one moment she allows a smile to grace her lips, actually reaching her eyes, and she nods her head in earnest. Jamie’s taken aback, having seen nothing but gloominess in the she wolf since he’d been assigned to her. He feels inclined to find out more about his Queen and takes a chance.

“It doesn’t bother you?” he raises an eyebrow.

“Should it?” she tilts her head.

Jaime simply stares at her, analysing her and for once she wants to please him. He takes in everything from her crudeness to the hardness in her eyes and he decides that the rumours are nothing more than horseshit. Dragon whore, they call her. As if she went willingly. Buried within her eyes is a tenderness, one that speaks of unspoken horrors and for once he understands the enigma that is Lyanna Stark: why she is so detached from reality, why she requests his presence though they say naught to each other. He should despise her for taking his sister’s crown yet he can’t help but admire her perseverance. And in that moment an understanding is reached between the two lonely souls.

He ignores her question and asks one of his own that’d been nagging at the back of his mind and he’d avoided it till now. “Why don’t you hate me?” He says it so thoughtfully that it brings Lyanna out of her reverie to gaze at him with a newfound appreciation for the Lannister lion. He sounds small and so unlike the man he was raised to be, his father would scoff if he’d heard.

“Why don’t you hate me?” Her questions throws Jaime off and he glances at her, furrowing his brows which earns a small smile off of Lyanna.

“I know the rumours aren’t true. You were disgraced by Rhaegar and Robert alike. They both sought you out like a prize to be displayed and you had no choice in this marriage.” While Lyanna knew Jaime didn’t believe the rumours she didn’t understand the full awareness he had of the situation at hand and she internally curses herself.

“And I know that the King was a madman who wanted nothing more than to destroy everything he touched. Why you killed him I know not and I will not ask out of respect for you but I believe that you did the right thing regardless of the situation. He killed my father and brother, so I thank you.” He finds himself unable to speak. Respect. He hadn’t been given any in so long and had gotten used to it, now suddenly he has an urge to please his Queen, to prove he’s more than the rumours say.

So they stand there in an amicable silence for some moments, both processing their new understanding of each other. Only when Robert walks out, Delena Florent in tow, are they disturbed. Robert glares at Jaime, But Jaime has his hand on the hilt of his sword. Lyanna’s husband simply grunts before looking back at his wife and walking off. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t poisoned him yet.” Jaime says with disgust rolling off his tongue and Lyanna decides that she likes the sound of his voice, it reminds her of chocolate melting. She refrains from answering but a glint reaches her eyes and the Lannister lion notices.

“Don’t tempt me,” she jests and Jaime can’t help how much he likes her company. All these months he’s had to endure the crude stares off giggling maidens and harsh whispers from proud men and just take it, as if he’s more automaton than man. No one had truly attempted to converse with him in forever, and he didn’t realise how lonely he’d been getting. He’d planned on inviting Tyrion to the Capitol, if the King would let him of course. So he sees an opportunity. 

“Your grace,” the atmosphere immediately changes and Lyanna wants to hear him say her name again, “I have a request.” Instantly, Lyanna’s facade is back up and the stony gaze penetrates his thoughts. He curses himself internally. She nods curtly but it’s stiff. “Would you be so kind to invite my younger brother Tyrion to the Capitol? I assume you’ve heard the rumours. He’s treated like a monster, I could do with his company as he could do with mine I’m sure.” His request takes Lyanna by surprise, eyes widening in surprise for she expected something far worse. And now she internally curses herself for thinking bad of him. Warmth returned to her cheeks, she nods. 

“Tell me about him.”

Jaime’s face lights up: his eyes gleam and once more he’s summer personified, warmth returns to his cheeks, his smile brightens reminding her of spring. He brims with overwhelming love for his brother and it reminds Lyanna of how close she once was with Brandon, Ned and Ben. And now they can hardly look at her without shame. She’d lost them the moment they believed the rumours because she was just a child. “He loves dragons,” Jaime’s voice drags Lyanna out of her reverie and she smiles softly, “he dreams of becoming a dragon rider.” Familiar thoughts race her mind and she does everything to not let her heart be overcome with winter. Rhaegar had prophecies of the dragon as well and his dreams lead to the brutalisation of his wife and children and no matter what she does she can’t help but blame herself. Jaime pauses and realisation clouds his eyes. As he’s about to mutter an apology, Lyanna puts a hand up, imploring him to continue. She looks dazed but her eyes brim with sincerity so he complies. “He’s the smartest person I know, even at ten name-days.” Tyrion is everything his father wants in a son bar his body. “He’d be the golden son if he wasn’t a dwarf.” He speaks with so much sorrow that Lyanna wonders if he’s jealous. After some thinking she decides he isn’t, he mourns for the love their father isn’t able to give and her admiration for him is tripled. The boy knows little love and she’s sure that Jaime gives all he can.

“He will always have a place here.” And she means that, as long as she lives the Lannister brother’s will always have a place in the Keep she’s forced to call a home. Jaime flashes her another smile and in another life she dreams it’d have been him.

“The King won’t mind?” He doesn’t want to be a burden. 

“As long as I flutter my eyelashes he’ll do as I say. I’ll send an invitation to your brother at once, I’m sure he can’t wait to see you.” For a moments she refrains from saying more, afraid of rejection when for the first time in forever she feels like she has a place. “I’d like to meet him myself.” Gazing downwards, she feels herself under the weight of Jaime’s gaze. He’s analysing the truth in her statement, not willing to tolerate any slander against Tyrion’s name. He finds that she’s genuine. Lyanna Stark keeps surprising him and it’s a nice surprise. In another life perhaps it’d have been her.

“He’d like you.” He says with finality, tone firm. She’s never heard Robert with so much passion bar his anger or hypocrisy. Curiosity bags at the back of her mind about his sister, the Lady Cersei Lannister. She’d heard many things speaking of her beauty, calling her the light of the west. But the rumours contradict that, too. Depicted as a coldness hearted woman with hostility engraved into her very bones, Lyanna doesn’t think she’d like her and thanks the Gods that Jaime hadn’t asked to invite her. 

Their parley is interrupted once again by Robert who huffs, glaring at the Lannister Lion through his Baratheon blue eyes. This time he’s followed by Barristan Selmy and Sandor Clegane, another one of his father’s lackeys. Her husband glares at Jaime once more before fixing his eyes upon Lyanna whose eyes glaze over once more in indifference. 

“Ser Barristan is to be your personal guard.” Venom drips from his tone but it no longer scares her and she simply gazes back at Jaime who looks downcast, not wanting to get his Queen into any more trouble. 

“No.” All eyes snap up as she draws finality into her tone, laced with venom for none of their than Robert and her glare is one so scalding it’s burn the ice caps in the North twice over. 

“Lyanna - “ Robert begins but is interrupted by his dear wife. 

“Ser Jaime is to remain as my personal guard or I will throw myself off the nearest cliff and my death will be on your shoulders.” A collected breath is taken in by all to witness this scene, Ser Barristan Selmy looking at her with pure horror. No doubt the rumours will weight up once again, she can already imagine the nobles in court whispering of her love affair with Jaime Lannister when they think their mutterings are said in closed doors. No matter, let them think what they think. She’ll damned if she loses the only friend she’s made in this god forsaken city. 

Jaime himself is encased in terror. Something takes hold of his eye that she’s only ever seen in Ned’s when she was on death’s door. Perhaps he’d actually care if she were to tragically lose her life life in what would no doubt be covered up as a drunken mishap. 

Her bastard husband glares at Jaime again, the heat in his chest rising like never before. He has half a mind to beat the living daylights out of the smug knight who stands before him but he somehow refrains himself. To add salt to the would Lyanna continues, “Tyrion Lannister is to be invited to court on my command and he will stay as long as he pleases. Send a raven to Lord Tywin and prepare his chambers as we speak. When he arrives Ser Jaime will be relieved of his duties for at least a noon to familiarise himself with his brother again.”

Robert recognises that he fights a losing battle if he wants to keep his wife within his grasp so he mutters with contempt, “I will invite Lady Cersei and her Lord father as well.” Indifference remains in Lyanna’s eyes and her antipathy truly wounds him. The implications are simple and they don’t bother her at all but Jaime’s eyes widen at the mention of his sister, the Queen allowing it to pass assuming it was made out of shock. Either way, she couldn’t care less.

The next morning beside Robert, Lyanna lies on the silk sheets covering her bareness, the previous night still playing on her mind. Her husband had been in such a rage following their encounter with Jaime and Barristan, he’d stormed into their chambers and all but demanded Lyanna to turn around so he could forget his comeuppance. She’d learnt early on not to resist or it’d only be worse, so she pretended that she enjoyed it by repeating his name like a mantra only it felt so bitter rolling off her tongue like Dornish wine. Lyanna knows that this will get worse the longer she goes without baring child for she takes moon tea after every horrific encounter with her oaf of a husband. She fears he may kill her in a fury if he finds out, for she makes it herself as she knows the people in the Court are not her people.

Her oaf husband wakes with a grunt, pressing a rough kiss to Lyanna’s lips which she doesn’t return since she know he enjoys the dominance. Repulsion spreads through her body and his touch still lingers, rendering every sense in her body useless as his hands continue to explore the crevices of Lyanna’s flesh. She takes an intake of breath and waits for the inevitable to happen but to her surprise Robert gets up in a hurry. She assumes he has another rendezvous planned with Delena Florent. Once again, it will never bother her. 

After he leaves she remains in a daze on the bed she’d had to claim as her own. Lyanna wants to burn it all: his touch, his scent, his voice. Gods it could be so easy. Proclaim herself mad enough for her bastard husband to annul their marriage and then maybe she’d be allowed some peace for the first time in three goddamn summers. 

Jaime stands outside, hearing the Queen take ragged breaths and momentarily he has an inner debate with himself. Does he abandon royal protocol and enter her chambers where she possibly lies as naked as her name day or does he do the appropriate thing and allow the Queen to drown in her sorrows? He isn’t one of Robert’s dogs so he does the former, barging into the royal chambers with panic set aflame in his eyes of summer.

Lyanna’s eyes are a deep void of nothing in that moment, staring off into space for another reality where she’d be anywhere but here. The furs barely cover her chest now, Jaime lowering his gaze and turning his head away. If she notices his presence, though she can’t miss it, she doesn’t indicate so and continues staring into nothingness. Is this how her day starts every morning? Lyanna Stark is fragile. She is lifeless. 

Despite the circumstances he thinks it’d be rude to interrupt whatever reverie she’s dreaming of so he simply waits in silence. The kingsguard: bounded by justice and enslaved by truth. Oh the truths he could tell. The truths he should fight. Lyanna’s eyes now widen at the sight of him and he mutters an apology for barging in, stating his worry for her. Her gaze softens but not completely, some terror still hidden in her eyes. As he turns his back from her, Lyanna slips in a gown of Stark colours. She’d never liked the southern gowns with plunging necklines and vibrant colours. The warmth of northern gowns remind her of home and it’s worth it even if she has to endure the splintering heat. 

“I won’t have to guard every cliff in the city?” Jaime speaks lowly, not threateningly more of a frightful tone. What else is he to say? He’d initially taken her ultimatum as a bluff but now he isn’t so sure. She’d looked as gone as a corpse and he’s seen far too many corpses in his short life so he knows. He wants to understand her, he really does. Perhaps he can then be the knight he’d always dreamed of being. 

“It was a bluff.” It doesn’t go unnoticed how her eyes glaze over and refuse to meet Jaime’s challenging stare, instead focusing on the woolen rug on the floor. A colour of fine crimson she’s sure the Lannisters would love. 

“Do not lie to me.” All sense of propriety is gone as blazing fury takes hold of the Lannister lion’s voice and it reminds her oh so much of Robert so she flinches under his gaze. Jaime immediately holds his hands up in apology and he allows the silence to stretch into infinity. Gods he’s a fool just as his father said. How could he allow himself to do such a thing? His inner conflict doesn’t stop the overwhelming worry he feels for Lyanna Stark. 

“I just want to help you.” He offers a smile so delicate as if he’s afraid she’s going to break like porcelain and she’d hate it on every other person but he make it all seem so genuine she can’t help but loosen her walls. The terror she’d felt is magnified by the gown that clings to her skin, almost suffocating her with her own weakness. Maybe Jaime is right. Death would now be a sweet reprieve. She’d survived so much and for what? To be treated as a ghost in her own home? To no longer have a family? To be reduced to a ghost made flesh? No, this life isn’t worth it and if anyone deserves to hear that it’s Jaime Lannister. 

“You can’t.” Her voice threatens to break as she mutters each syllable so achingly, the heartbreak evident on her face and in that moment Jaime is relieved that Rhaegar Targaryen is dead. He broke Lyanna near to every way possible, Robert Baratheon finishing off what he started. He doesn’t mind the idea of being a kingslayer twice over anymore, not when one man can inflict so much pain. It’d be worth it if Lyanna was set free. 

“If anything happens to you the blame will fall on me and I can take that because it will be my fault if anything is to happen to you. I am your personal guard and I am to protect you from those who dare harm you. But I can only help you so much against yourself.” Jaime moves towards Lyanna and takes her hand within, clutching it as tightly as if she’s an anchor and he a sinking ship. “Let me in.” Shaky, his voice is still unyielding.

“I don’t even know who I am anymore.” Lyanna Stark had been a girl as wild as the wolves she ran with, rebellion clinging to her very bones, wonder embedded deep into her eyes. But underneath it all she was just a child who’d loved the stories of the dragon prince, who longed for more than baring children to a man she despises. She used to go horse riding daily, always faster than Brandon. She used to be able to wield a sword, now whenever she goes near one the guards intensify themselves. Lyanna Baratheon has been broken down a hundred and one times and all that’s left is a ghost made flesh, no longer is she a wolf for she has been in the company of rats for far too long. 

“You’re Lyanna Stark.” He says it with so much finality, as if he ever knew Lyanna Stark. He knew of the dragon whore, the wolf bitch. She wishes he’d known her when she was whole, when her rose tinted vision hadn’t shattered. 

“Baratheon.” It sounds so bitter as it rolls off her tongue. 

“No. You will always be a Stark, never forget that.”

“The Starks are honourable, Lyanna is not as far the rumours go.”

Jaime inhales then exhales, eyes suddenly bloodshot. He still remains under the finest control despite her vulnerability and she squeezes his hand back. “Use their words like armour and they can’t hurt you.” Of course he’d know what to say when he’s experiencing the very same thing. She’s never thought him to care about what the nobles say but she now realises that, just like her, he is just a boy who got involved in the game of thrones through forces out of his control. His armour consists of arrogance and pride and the Lannister name. Lyanna nods her head slowly. 

“What was the Princess Elia like?” She finally asks the dreaded question. The sun of Dorne, the Targaryen princess, the dragon’s wife. Her heart aches for the consequences of her childish desires. Sure, she hadn’t wanted to leave with Rhaegar but she had agreed to meet up with him and for that she is as guilty as they say. Lyanna had only heard a few whispers of Elia Martell, from the kitchen maids who’d served her. They spoke of her utter humility. She would have made twice the Queen Lyanna is. Still, she needs to hear Jaime say it. 

“She was beautiful.” Elia Martell was as alluring as gold is to a man with gold galore. Her smile was almost hypnotic, sweetness engraved into her very bones but that did her no good as she was brutalised in the name of war. She was a sweet summer’s song come to life and in comparison Lyanna is a war hym personified. He’d often stare into the eyes of the Martell Princess and wonder what could possess a man to abandon such a beauty. An inner beauty as well. She was the reincarnation of Good Queen Alysanne, only Rhaegar was not Jaehaerys. To compare Elia’s beauty to Lyanna’s beauty would be comparing summer to winter. Where Elia had the softest brown eyes that resembled pools of honey against the sunlight, Lyanna’s personify a thunderstorm. Where Elia’s ebony ringlets cascaded down her back, Lyanna’s tresses fall perfectly together. Both enchanting in their own right. Both wild beauties, too. Elia’s beauty was so foreign to those outside of Dorne they did not know what to make of it. Lyanna’s beauty so foreign to those outside the North they did not know what to make of it. These two women lie on different sides of the same coin. The side of the living and the side of the dead for both were a pawn in Rhaegar’s game. 

“I sometimes hear her singing.” Lyanna’s eyes snap back to Jaime, ensuring that he doesn’t mean ghosts of any sort. He shakes his head, though feeling their presence in the Red Keep. She’d sing to Rhaenys and Aegon all the time, hushing them to sleep and calming them in the midst of torrential rains. Her voice was heavenly.

“I felt unworthy of being in her presence.” Elia was everything good in this world and Jaime himself may as well personify everything bad: treachery, greed, betrayal. She’d ignore her own pain every single to day and put a smile on, not allowing the circumstances to break her. The rumours say she was weak but Jaime knows better. Elia Martell is the strongest woman he’s ever known. Perhaps his presence tainted her. 

“She had a sweet wit.” Jaime recalls everything about their second meeting with ease, from the Dornish gown she wore to the way his heart almost stopped in his chest. She was radiant, sun made flesh. Jaime had expected her to be tender and that she was but she was so much more. A galaxy within a woman. She wasn’t cruel, like Cersei. She was every bit the perfect Queen. And yet when he’d been enlisted he’d seen the dread in her eyes because he was just a boy. He mourns her everyday. When he prays he prays for her and her children. And he hates himself for not being able to save them when he should have. What else was he to do? If he had saved them then Aerys would have unleashed hellfire onto King’s Landing. It was the lives of five hundred thousand against the lives of three people. But what thanks did he get? None. Instead he’d been ostracised and shunned from society. In another life he’d have saved Elia Martell and her children. 

“Rhaegar did not break her.” He immediately regrets his words which were meant in awe for the Targaryen princess but they’d come across as a taunt to the Wolf Queen. He internally curses himself before turning to face Lyanna again. “She had will to survive because of her children. She’d never trusted Rhaegar and had even expected his betrayal due to his incessant worry of the prophecy.”

“He told me he loved me.” Lyanna doesn’t think Rhaegar was capable of love. He’d grown up in a broken home, his father a madman dwelling in his lunacy and his mother a weak woman, as the rumours go, who couldn’t defend herself. Perhaps he had loved her once but love is meant to be pure. It shouldn’t be selfish and that’s what his was. They say Rhaegar Targaryen was the most beautiful man in the Kingdoms but Lyanna begs to differ. His amethyst opals pale in comparison to Jaime’s eyes of summer that gleam like a penny. His flowing, silver hair pales in comparison to Jaime’s luscious, golden tufts of hair. Rhaegar was just as mad as his father only he hid it in false hope. Jaime is unapologetically himself and she admires him all the more for it. Jaime Lannister, never anyone else. 

“Did you love him back?” Jaime knows the answer to that but wants to hear her say it. 

“It was childish desire. He was forbidden fruit and I longed for an escape.”

“And if you could escape now?” 

“If the right man tempted me I would.”

Both have the urge to press themselves against each other, to know the feelings of their lips against each other’s. Lyanna is sure he’d be a better kisser than Robert who is sloppy, Jaime would be passionate and tender. They want to feel the feeling of their limbs tangled under each other but they know that can never happen for treason is death so they refrain, desire on the lips. 

They stare at each other passionately, hands no longer intertwined as Barristan Selmy entered the chambers alongside Robert. “What is the meaning of this?” Robert mutters with poison dripping from his tone. He hadn’t seen Lyanna in hours so had decided to look for her, not liking what he sees before him. 

“The Queen fell and I heard the impact from outside. I entered to ensure her grace was safe.” He looks indifferent enough, lips not smirking and eyes not gleaming but his voice is tight, coated in venom that Robert can’t react to. 

“I wish to see the smallfolk.” Lyanna’s statement renders the men before her speechless for she hasn’t left the Keep in a year. Perhaps she’s too fragile but it needs to be done one day. She will give to them what she can and hopefully spend the day there, away from her husband’s fury. 

“Ser Jaime?” Lyanna was so tempted in that moment to just call him Jaime, knowing it’d cause chaos and worsen Robert’s mood but she had no idea how he would treat Jaime as a result. The Lannister knight bids his king good day with a gracious bow and follows her grace. 

Piece by piece Jaime will show her the world she’d closed her eyes to.


	2. False Knights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar Targaryen won the war that bled a realm. Seven years later he fights on the frontlines as the Greyjoys ignite their own rebellion and he dies (the horror)! Lyanna couldn’t be happier, though a certain golden knight helps her passions.

Dead. Rhaegar Targaryen is dead at the hands of none other than Rodrik Greyjoy. Her bastard husband has perished as he should have done 7 damned years ago. It’d been a sword impaled through his chest, torrents of blood staining the seawater. Red cascades through her fingers and Lyanna is gleeful.

His silver tresses are stained with the mud of the earth and he’s even paler than he had been, somehow looking ethereal even in death and it enrages her. May he rot in the seven hells or whatever these southerners believe.

Bored out of her wits she’d forced king bastard to allow her to fight the final battle and it had been thrilling. Meanwhile Elia and the children wait within the Keep and Lyanna’s just happy that they’re safe.

So, she’s surrounded with the ever dour Stannis Baratheon and Ned and the kingsguard who garment themselves in their filthy white cloaks. Arthur Dayne weeps for the loss of his beloved friend, Ser Gerold’s old features are etched in grief and Lyanna wills him to die with her stupid husband, Barristan Selmy is grave and she almost sympathises with the man, Lewyn Martell is ever graceful and yet even Lyanna can see that he mourns little for the man who’d disgraced his niece, Jonothor Darry is as grave as can be and she has to stifle laughter. Meanwhile Oswell Whent looks confused above all, a man who’d jest in the midst of warfare and for that she admires him. And then there’s Ser Jaime Lannister, who'd killed King Aerys II upon Rhaegar’s arrival to the city with Lyanna (she’d tried to escape but the three idiots wouldn’t allow her to). The young lion is wholly beautiful, brows creased as he just stares at the body, not even a trace of mourning etched upon his chiselled features.

Tired of the silence that encases her lungs, Lyanna rises from her place atop a stabbing rock that had almost drawn blood. The breeches she dons are tight, the curve of her arse sighted for all to see. Hair tumbling in waves, she looks ever the feral wolf with a smile so carefree as if her husband isn’t dead.

Ned eyes her wearily, the way he has done ever since that damned war had ended. And she doesn’t blame him, not really, but it always hurts. It’s bitter, like Dornish Red at the back of her throat.

She coughs to get the attention of the white cloaks. “I’m going for a swim.” Her words are draped in everlasting happiness and the faces of the kingsguard contort into rage. As if they hadn’t stolen her freedom. Wearing that wry grin she’s come to know, she looks to them all with humour. “Jaime,” she says as she gallops towards the the bathing hall as her tresses sway with the wind that nips at her flesh ever so slightly. The mischief in her eyes dances with his, Ser Jaime following with a smirk of his own as he glances to Ser Barristan in particular.

They watch them with meticulous eyes and Lyanna can’t find it within her to care. Ser Jaime is a knight of the kingsguard, he’d never dare dishonour one of his queens.

And yet here they are.

Rhaegar’s stupid prophecies had lead him to kidnap her, taking her to a damned tower in Dorne of all places the fucking bastard. Raped near every day, she bares the dead man nothing but hatred and anger. Once he’d won the stupid war and taken her to the Capitol as his second queen (Elia had also been indifferent and taken on a lover of her own to which Lyanna had approved but Ser Arthur had been wroth the ignorant bastard), he’d never entered her chambers again.

Locked away in the library for hours he’d been, rummaging through books and scrolls of centuries past while trying to predict the future. It’d suited Lyanna well enough, allowing her the time to learn swordplay from Ser Jaime and Ser Arthur. The latter is chivalrous (as they say but it’s absolute shit and she knows it) and the former is vulgar yet he can brighten her day with naught as much as a smirk because it’s nice to know he isn’t one of Rhaegar’s dogs. The children have even taken a fondness to Jaime, Rhaenys most of all as she’ll wrap herself around his legs and call him her golden lion. It’s heartwarming, truly, and the rage etched on the features of the former dornishman makes it even better. Brother of her heart, Elia will call him.

It’s customary for Lyanna to spend her morning within the godswood, praying as fickle people do. For father. For Brandon. For Robert, even. She’d never liked the man but he’d been a better man than Rhaegar, she oft likes to believe.

One night, Ser Jaime had been the guard to follow her to the heart tree where she’d said her words that perhaps mean little to the gods who’d given her naught but death and damnation.

“Do you pray, Ser Jaime?” she’d asked with genuine curiosity.

“No, your grace,” he’d said. “The gods have done nothing for me.” 

“Nor me,” she’d replied truthfully. With a hint of sadness.

“And yet here you are.” His voice had been like summer personified in that moment.

“Why did you do it?” The question was obvious, and he’d startled for a moment before the glamour was back up. Of pride and arrogance and damn him was it endearing.

“Ask your brother,” he’d said dryly and his antipathy slightly wounded Lyanna.

“Ned’s an honourable fool,” she’d replied blankly.

“Fools are fools,” he’d said sarcastically.

“Men are men,” she’d counter argued.

“And yet you are neither.” His voice had taken a curious turn, and damn him Lyanna was intrigued.

“Do all men break their vows?” she’d asked with a shred of the innocence she’d once had.

“You are talking to the kingslayer,” he’d replied with half a grin and yet it wavered, if only for a moment. His past follies had almost broken through and damn him Lyanna was enticed. Enamoured.

Rising from her stance of kneeling, Lyanna had faced the heart tree curiously as her brows had been creased and eyes glossed over in a kind of wonder. Her gown had been pure northern, a drab grey falling to her feet with furs lining her neck and the heat had been palpable. “Would you care to break another vow?” she’d asked with a smirk of her own, edging closer towards the tree gods who’d been forced to watch the proceedings.

Jaime had smirked, green eyes of summer overcome with lust and before Lyanna could say anything more his hands had been nestled within her hair and lips firmly pressed against her own. It’d been a battle she’d enjoyed, tongues fighting for dominance and teeth clashing into each other. In turn, Lyanna’s hands had been fisted into his tufts of golden curls, pressing the knight closer and closer till they were one breath.

Without word, a finger had entered her folds and she could feel his smirk against her lips. A cry of pleasure had escaped her throat as his fingers worked their magic against her cunt, burning desire between her legs for Jaime Lannister.

Her lips had been swollen and bruised against his own, yet she’d felt alive for the first time in moons. She’d felt wanted, good, even. When she’s known naught but damnation from noble (wicked) men and women who curse her for being raped daily. The dragon bitch, they call her. She prefers wolf bitch. But Lyanna Stark is dead, now she is Lyanna Targaryen and it sounds foul on her tongue.

The Starks are honourable, and Lyanna is not. But the Targaryens are madmen, and Lyanna is not.

He’d tasted of summer wine and had a scent of the forest she so loved. He’d been nature personified, summer, spring, autumn even while she’d been winter and theirs was a liaison of the sun and moon. Jaime Lannister, golden knight and Lyanna Stark, a whore.

He’d suddenly removed his fingers, tracing the edges of her jaw delicately with the touch of a thousand beautiful gods. A fire had been ignited on her flesh, green and grey meeting for what felt like the first time. His thumb had traced her lips, and her breathing has never been so shallow.

Actually, it had become even more shallow as he’d unlaced his breeches and unleashed his cock (which was gigantic, even bigger than her bastard husband’s) and Lyanna had gasped like a child and damn him his smirked widened.

And then he’d entered her without a warning, still holding her softly as if she was ivory. His rhythm had been steady, moving against her like she was glass. Their lips had melded again to stifle their pleasure, and then they’d both reached their peaks. Lyanna had never felt so safe and good, simultaneously. Jaime Lannister had been a tender lover, and she’d find herself craving his touch. To see him bare, for their limbs to be tangled beneath each other’s. But that was never meant to be. He, a disgraced kingsguard and she, a disgraced queen.

And then they’d parted, her body suddenly lacking all sense of warmth.

He’d laced his breeches up again and she’d tried so damn hard to even her breaths and not feel warm at the sight again but damn him he made it worse. “They weren’t wrong to call you wild,” he’d said with that ever endearing grin that makes Ladies swoon and damn him she’d become a lady.

Of course, that hadn’f been their last tryst. But it’d been their first and now here they are.

*

The bathing hall is even more intriguing than the Seastone Chair which is indeed fascinating with its block of oily black stone carved into the shape of a kraken. ‘Tis large and cavernous with a pool for a floor. Water oozes out of pipes in the wall with each piercing crash of a wave against Pyke. Lyanna is there, bare.

He just stands there for a moment, admiring her breasts which unleash something feral within him as his arousal is plain for her to see. Moving with the water, Lyanna is graceful as she swims like some sort of siren. Her raven tresses are soaked and her skin is even paler, like moonlight, but she shines like the sun. He’s fucked her many a time, and he’s had his tongue in her mouth but he’s never seen her naked. All he can do is stare. Till Lyanna smirks. “Get in Lannister.” And like that she’s back underwater. Jaime sheds himself of his armour, the chunks of metal falling to the floor in a way that makes him grimace at the sound. Left in naught but breeches and a tunic, he bares his chest to allow Lyanna to see the muscles and now she ogles. His breeches are last, and Lyanna watches enticingly as he’s garmented in naught but the salty air. 

Jumping into the water head first, he drags Lyanna down with him. His hands cling to her waist and she doesn’t resist as the closeness they crave only intensifies. 

Bobbing back up to the surface, carefree grins are laced on their lips as they face each other. Jaime’s hair is no longer golden but coppery. Right now he isn’t a disgraced kingsguard and she isn’t the disgraced queen. They’re just Jaime and Lyanna, nothing more and nothing less. 

“I’m glad he’s dead,” she says quietly. 

“So am I,” he confirms before encircling the bud of her breast with his fingers. She loosens under his touch and her breathing becomes laboured as he continues to skim her chest lightly. 

“He was a pitiful lover,” she gasps out, struggling to keep her voice even. Jaime smirks and guides her towards the edge of the pool, trapping her with his body and she blossoms beneath him. Only for him. 

“I don’t think Rhaegar Targaryen knew how to love,” Jaime reveals sombrely as his teeth graze the slope of Lyanna’s neck with reverence. His tongue traces swirls and he sucks on her soft skin hard enough to leave visible, red marks. Still, he continues. The way Lyanna says his name, indecently, gives him the pleasure of a thousand lying whores as she writhes under him. And they haven’t even got to the best part. 

“He told me he loved me,” she laughs bitterly. Her sadness is tangible as she kneads her hands into his hair, pulling at his golden curls with the ferocity of a thousand feral wolves and damn her it’s endearing.

Jaime faces her again, a foreign earnestness taking hold of his handsome features. He’s realised it happens a lot in her presence and he’s unsure if it’s admiration or empathy. Perhaps a hybrid of both. He laces a hand to slope of her shoulder and Lyanna shivers under his touch. He plays with her strands of dampened hair, twirling her tresses around his fingers with reverence. “Damned prophecies,” he utters with sheer disdain for his dead king. Before Lyanna can reply he lifts her above the edge so that he’s directly between her legs, head just above her centre. She squeals in delight and he smiles, grin only widening.

Her legs are soft and silky as Jaime lowers himself to her thighs, loitering kisses atop them, his tongue dancing. She takes in shallow breaths, pressing him closer. “And they say he would’ve been a good king,” she says voice just above a whisper. He hadn’t been horrible as Aerys had been but he hadn’t done much ruling either, his father had served as Hand as he’d helped win the battle of the Trident and that tale’s already been told before.

“Anyone’s better than Aerys,” he points out, edging closer to her folds.

“Are you defending him?” she asks. She doesn’t sound quite as angry as she’d hoped to, still struggling to keep her voice even as his tongue dances on her skin.

“Never,” he replies nonchalantly.

“They said he was the most beautiful man in the kingdom.” She changes the topic and Jaime would care were it not for her dripping wetness that he soon closes in on.

“I wouldn’t know, your grace,” he begins, knowing Lyanna hates it when he calls her that, “but I think you’re rather beautiful.” For a moment her eyes turn into emerald opals and her hair contorts to a golden hue before he sees Lyanna again. Only Lyanna. She blushes a rosy red, and he knows she fucking hates it as her hands tighten around his hair.

“You’re more beautiful that he was,” before she can say anything further Jaime delves his tongue deep into her cunt and she screams. He enjoys the taste of her so he continues to suck at her folds. Her moans only grow louder, and he can smugly imagine the horror on the faces of his sworn brothers but he can’t find it within him to care. She presses him closer if that’s even possible and he swirls circles with his tongue, never stopping, only encouraged by her cries of pleasure. When he’s finished, his lips are covered in her juices and her cunt is dripping with wetness for him, red and sore but her eyes are glossed over in pure ecstasy and he smirks.

“Why haven’t you don’t that before?” she asks almost innocently, pleasure still draping every word she utters and his arousal deepens.

“You never asked,” he jests and she laughs lightly before dipping back into the water and taking his cock within her hands, rubbing it as she watches him curiously. But it’s too tempting, so Jaime grabs her hands above her head and presses his lips to hers in an instant. The kiss is sloppy and messy, as they’ve never been one for tenderness, and she bites his bottom lip. He slips in his tongue and he swallows her moan, his name on her lips.

He kisses her with the passion of a thousand cruel gods, with reverence and admiration and wanting and desire and lust. They don’t stop for breaths, eager to devour each other before they can give in. His hands wander to her arse, and hers to his hair which he’s learnt she loves. Without separating their melded lips, he enters her and he feels whole. 

He fucks her hard and slow against the side of the pool, with respect and longing and everything good that can’t come from the kingslayer. He fucks her like it’s only her, like it’s only ever been her. He fucks her like his heart isn’t torn between two women, between the sweetness of his bones and the sourness of his veins. He fucks her like everyone else has evaporated with no tragic bloodlines to show for themselves, like it’s only them two. He fucks her till all he knows is Lyanna’s name on his lips and all she knows is every crevice of his body and the sound of her name on his lips.

When finished, sweat glistening off their foreheads, they go back to swimming. Just swimming in the crystal waters that gleam like moonlight and they swim for hours upon hours, somewhat drunk on each other’s presence. 

When they’re finished, they dry off and redress themselves before leaving to face the rest of the kingsguard and Ned Stark and Stannis Baratheon who apparently haven’t moved an inch. They’re all sombre and solemn, as if a man can mourn his brother’s killer. It’s comical, to Jaime anyway. 

“Ser Jaime,” Ser Barristan acknowledges him with stiffness, mild disdain colouring his tone. Jaime rolls his eyes. 

Before Jaime can say anything in reply, Lyanna moves to the side to walk with Stannis and her brother. He finds himself intrigued but refrains from walking with them, ready to face the shame of his fellow brothers. 

These men are said to possess the honour that only a kingsguard could possess, their White Cloaks untarnished and untainted while his own is muddy with blood and death and everything bad in this world. Jaime may well be a brother of the black, and as such the sky turns into a deep shade of blackness that engulfs them. As dark as his sins. 

Arthur speaks first, every line on his face etched in the fury of a thousand stupid gods. He no longer looks like the kindly and chivalrous knight who’d given Jaime his knighthood. He doesn’t look so knightly at all. “She is your queen,” he says haughtily.

“She is a victim of Rhaegar’s stupid obsession,” he replies furiously. There’s a ravenous beast within his chest, one whose name Jaime doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what to feed it or what to call it but it claws at his ribcage and takes the breath out of his lungs. It longs to demolish the Red Keep to a lone brick, to crush Rhaegar Targaryen’s broken bones, to rip his white cloak to shreds and forsake his stupid vows once and for all. 

Arthur looks away and Barristan speaks in place of him. “You broke a vow,” he says dangerously. 

Jaime laughs bitterly. “That’s the vow you bereave me over.” 

Suddenly the White Bull steps in, his withered features etched in a hybrid of things that Jaime can’t name. Old and ancient, but still deadly. Jaime had once worshipped him. That boy is no longer. “You’re lucky we weren’t there, kingslayer,” he says with the venom of a thousand vipers. Not vipers like the Martells who are elegant and regal, but a viper that’s murderous and poisonous. 

Ser Lewyn Martell, now the only kingsguard who Jaime truly respects, steps in with an expression of softness. He stands by Jaime’s side, as if this could turn into a battle and it very well could turn into one with the bloody murder he’s faced with. Ser Lewyn had only taken his vows for Elia, and he remains in that snake’s pit for Elia and Rhaenys and Aegon, never allowing Rhaegar to forget his sins that’d damned them all. 

“You have no idea what I went through. None of you. ELIA WAS YOUR QUEEN AND YOU ABANDONED HER. LYANNA WAS A CHILD AND YOU LET THAT MONSTER RAPE HER EVERYDAY. Do you hear her screams in your sleep, Ser Gerold? Does your dishonour haunt you as you lie awake at night, Ser Arthur? Do you regret you cowardice, Ser Oswell? Because I do. Every night I see his face and hear his voice. Burn them all, he’d said, believing Rhaegar would kill him upon entrance. Let my son rule over charred remains and ashes, he’d said with the eyes of a madman. You all forget that I killed the pyromancer first. Rossart, his name was. But you don’t care, do you? You don’t care that I was sixteen and left with a madman. You don’t care that Elia and the children lived in fear of their lives everyday, that I lived for them and only for them. You don’t care that you stood pretty at a tower while a girl was brutalised as your kinsmen were dying for a war that wasn’t theirs. You act as if he were some kindly old man I’d killed in cold blood, I was seventeen. Some nights I’d hold my sword to my throat and will myself to end it all and this stupid twisting pain that fucks up everything in my chest. Some nights I’d pray to the gods to let the others take me so my shame wouldn’t face me every fucking day because you’re all perfect, aren’t you? I saved an entire city and I’m resented from Dorne to the Wall. You allowed tyranny to abide for decades and you’re praised. Aerys took my freedom and innocence while Rhaegar took my joy and dreams. They’ve taken everything from me, and yet somehow you all keep on taking.” His voice had started unyielding, but the harrowing memories began to set in and pure terror coloured his tone. He can remember it all so vividly and it physically hurts. He sounds like the boy he’d been and not the man he is and he hates it. He hates this weakness that consumes him because lions aren’t weak. 

Only now does he realise that though he hadn’t screamed as much as he’d liked his words had been piercing as Lyanna, Ned and Stannis all face him with horror. Something akin to sympathy takes hold of the Stark Lord’s eyes while the Baratheon man doesn’t look as hard as once did. Lyanna, meanwhile, is ghastly pale as if she recalls memories of her own and Jaime curses himself for reminding her. 

“You all shame me yet I protected the innocents of King’s Landing. The women and the men and the children. You all shame me yet I was the one who’d attempted to help Rhaella. You all shame me yet you think you kept your dignity after watching Rickard Stark burn because he wanted his daughter back. You are nothing more than false knights who glorify yourselves because who else would songs be sang of? Certainly not the kingslayer because he dared choose his vows of knighthood over vows of the kingsguard.” He finishes cooly, face red and fingers trembling and mouth shaped into a sneer. 

They then leave, save for Ser Lewyn who looks at Jaime with the respect he’s deserved for seven years, but before they do Ser Barristan sends an apologetic glance towards the Lannister knight while the other four avoid him like a disease. 

Surprisingly, Ned Stark walks towards him devoid of the disgust he’d once prided himself on. Lyanna’s brother stands before him, slightly shorter but his shadow is large enough. “I judged you harshly,” he says softly, “and for that I apologise.” Jaime nods his head in acknowledgement as the Stark and Baratheon men leave silently. 

Lewyn has already left and now it’s just Jaime and Lyanna. 

“You could have told me,” she points out. 

“There was nothing to tell,” he replies gruffly. 

“Do you still get those thoughts?” she asks as if she’s scared of the answer. 

“Rarely,” he replies. 

“I’m sorry,” she says meekly. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” His voice is softer and quieter, unable to meet her eyes for fear of what he’ll see. 

“I never thought you to be a false knight,” she then says after some moments of silence and Jaime almost smiles. Almost. 

“I’ll cherish that,” he says almost laughingly. Lyanna laughs and there’s a twinkle in her eyes that’s often there in his presence. It’s nice, seeing her happy, he likes the sight. 

That night, Jaime watches as dying flames devour the edges of his white cloak as the sides are blackened and burnt. Embers dance along it as his last chance at honour is reduced to naught but ashes on a barren land. He feels peace, a kind of peace he hand t felt in a long time. Closure, maybe. 

*

The godswood at the Red Keep overlooks the Blackwater Rush. It’s an acre of elm, alder, and black cottonwood. Unlike the weirwoods of older godswoods, the Red Keep's heart tree is a great oak covered in smokeberry vines. Red dragon's breath grows below the oak and they’re ugly, to Jaime anyway. 

When once the sky had been splattered with bursts of orange and pink which shone in hazes against the setting sun which is now naught but a vivid daydream, the night reawakens against the dying light. Darkness engulfs King’s Landing, reducing the view of Blackwater Bay to a piercing vale of blackness that sparkles. The moon bares its beauty, setting its light amongst the maiden fair and the golden knight whose beauty shines brighter than the thousands of stars which resemble the dying embers of a fire. Constellations shimmer like fragmented jewels against their hollow skin with stardust smeared across their bruised lips as their hands intertwine with exultant glory. Hearts beating with the immortality of youth as naught else stands proof of their beings and souls thrumming with eternal happiness, they have since learnt the merit that comes with sacrifice.

Lyanna is garmented in a gown of white that has a plunging neckline embroidered with patterns of all sorts. It’s simple and she looks best that way as her beauty is effortless. Jaime wears a finely stitched velvet doublet of black and white over a white tunic, abandoning his sudden preference of a boiled leather jerkin for this momentous occasion. He looks like a king without a crown whist still resembling the warrior that he is. 

To their individual sides sit Tyrion and the Stark brothers and Elia and the babes. The younger two are joyous as pure elation is etched on their features and even Ned looks happy, excited even. 

The vows are said and sealed with a kiss. As honour and duty had unravelled, virtue had prevailed and now that oath is long forsaken. No doubt word will spread and he’ll face the scorn of a thousand cruel gods but there’ll all be to Winterfell by then, where Jaime and Jon alike can see snow for themselves. Meanwhile Elia’s taken on the regency as they await Aegon to come of age and they couldn’t be happier because the Martell Princess (she refuses to be called a Queen) was made for this. Westeros will prosper under her rule, that Jaime is sure of.


	3. Final Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime Lannister is to be Lord of Casterly Rock and so his father is in search of a worthy Lady Lannister. Lyanna Stark runs with wolves, a wilderness clinging to her that’s unable to be tamed by any man but lions have claws and their paths will crisscross many a time as they’re forced to say goodbye to what could have been.

The North is a perilous place as the winter air makes its way into Jaime’s bones for better or worse. The ground is a canvas of snow that covers the wildflowers and grass that must grow. The world dons its winter coat and the snow crunches like sugar underfoot and the path sparkles against the light of the sky that’s a tapestry of blue embroidered with puffs of white magic that float as if they’re the beams that hold the heavens.

As the future Lord of Casterly, Jaime is to find a suitable bride. So far he’s been to the Riverlands and the Reach, his father considering betrothals to Lysa Tully as her older sister Catelyn (who Jaime liked fat more) is to be wedded to Brandon Stark and Janna Tyrell who Jaime hadn’t been averse to but the Reachmen had gained little of his favour. The sayings of Mace Tyrell are an understatement to the folly of the man, and his sisters had held their mother’s wit. It’s a shame women can’t rule, he thinks, the Reach could surely use it. 

Some part of him wishes his father had accepted Princess Loreza Martell’s wish of betrothing him to the Princess Elia. She’d been beautiful with golden eyes that shone like summer and ebony ringlets that cascaded like waves of the ocean, yes, but she’d also been kind to Tyrion and for that Jaime will always remember her with reverence should they never meet again. The Princess is as worthy as they come, and he longs to tell his father that but fear stops him.

As he’s atop his horse, Cersei sits in the carriage. Her eyes are cold and emotionless as King Aerys had refused to allow the Prince Rhaegar to marry a “servant”. It hurts Jaime to some degree, how he can never be enough when he’s suggested to leave and never look back many a time. It’s her, only her. Her golden eyes that gleam like emeralds and golden hair that resembles the stars. He can’t imagine a world in which it’s not her, nor does he want to. 

Cersei is his twin. Theirs is an oath tied with blood and sweat and tears not just some insincere words that any fool could say. She’s his other half. She understands him. It’s always been the pair of them and never anyone else yet that’s about to change. He’d planned to enlist in the kingsguard to be beside Cersei but their father had heard of their plan and swiftly put an end to it, and now Tywin Lannister is restless in finding him a suitable wife by the coming summer. 

Lyanna Stark, her name is. A girl who runs with wolves and bleeds the blood of a wolf. A girl who’s said to be untameable but they forget that even lions have claws. 

And then the party arrive. 

Winterfell is a grand castle, not as grand Casterly Rock but still grand. One that is twice the size of the Red Keep. The bricks are of black and the Keep just expands and expands. It’s imposing and inspires a sense of dread within Jaime as he remembers the tales he’d been told. Of Brandon the Builder. Of the devotion the Starks inspire within this frozen wasteland. His father calls them honourable fools but fools are fools and men are men, and his father may be both. Standing outside to greet them are Rickard Stark — who appears to be cut from the same cloth as Lord Tywin with his cold eyes and firm lips, Brandon Stark — who eyes him with all the weariness an older brother would for Jaime himself would hardly be kind to one of Cersei’s suiters, Eddard Stark — who’s back from his fostering in the Vale and it appears as though his time with old Lord Arryn has made him withered at the tender age of eighteen he must be, Benjen Stark — who’s much smaller but there’s a mischief in his eyes and Jaime imagines that Tyrion would like him. And lastly there’s Lyanna Stark. Her skin is pale like her homeland and her raven tresses fall to her waist. Her eyes are as grey as they come and she garments herself in a pure northern gown that traps all the heat it can with fur linings. She is beautiful, nor stunningly the way Cersei is but like a snowflake. The kind of beauty that falls gently upon your lips like flakes of snow that fall gently to the ground, silent, fragile and subtle but beautiful nonetheless. You don’t notice her right away, but when you do she’s enthralling. She eyes Jaime with her own weariness and he understands it because he looks at her the same. Lord Rickard steps forth and nods cordially to his father, introducing all his children in order of age as Lord Tywin does the same. Cersei’s cold and Jaime feels Lyanna’s eyes on him as they’re escorted to their chambers. While one would think that cold would penetrate into the walls of Winterfell they’d be sorely mistaken because unexplainable warmth floods into his beings. His confusion must be visibly because the Stark girl grins slightly. “That’s the hot springs,” she says with mirth. Jaime nods like he understands even though he doesn’t, somewhat scared to even look at her.

He spends the rest of his night just laying in bed, pondering, doing nothing really. Perhaps it’s preparation for the feast tomorrow but some part of him is nervous. Meanwhile Cersei won’t talk to him, blaming him for the failure of their plan and that hurts as well but he’d never tell her that.

The next morning, he rises from a fitful slumber in which he’d twisted and turned as promised invaded his thoughts. Promises that should be of love and homage and fidelity and prosperity but only inspire dread to churn within his stomach. And he thinks of another vow. A vow that bows with pride and prestige as duty would unravel and his virtue would prevail. Jaime Lannister, the golden knight. 

He breaks his fast with his father and then he’s ushered into the world beyond. 

Jaime’s a promising swordsman. More than promising. He may well be a prodigy so naturally he stops by the training ground where Brandon Stark practices against the master at arms. And before the Lannister boy knows it he’s being asked to duel the Stark heir and he smirks. He’s never been interested in girls because fighting is his life. 

Brandon is extremely skilled and fast and stronger than Jaime but Jaime is faster. He’s more agile, and his moves are less predictable. He’s graceful and he can predict almost every step the Stark boy takes before he takes it. Steel clashes against steel as a crowd gather to watch them and Jaime rebels in the attention because this is his place. He defeats Brandon almost too easily, and his opponent sneers but praises his technique. 

And then she comes slightly closer, to her brother of course not to him. “That should quench your pride,” Lyanna Stark says menacingly to Brandon, a spark alight in her eyes that resemble gemstones. 

Brandon scowls. Wolf blood they call it. “It was a one off,” he says as if he actually believes it. 

“It didn’t quench your ego then,” she mutters, with an eye roll, loudly enough for both boys to hear. Jaime finds himself grinning in spite of himself while Brandon scowls further. 

“You didn’t cheer for me loud enough,” he retorts and Lyanna only smiles slyly. 

“He,” she points to Jaime, “didn’t have anyone cheering for him.” And he’s reminded that Cersei is nowhere to be found. Most of all he finds himself missing Tyrion who’s always his loudest supporter. He wishes he’d convinced his father to allow his brother to come but alas it wasn’t meant to be. 

And then before Jaime can say anything back Lyanna Stark is ushering him away from the crowd silently as Brandon barks with laughter at the pure shock etched on his handsome features. “Father said I should talk to you,” she eventually says as if she despises this as much as he does and perhaps she does. After all, it’s not he who’ll be parted from his ancestral home. He doesn’t envy her.

The godswood's multitude of trees create a dense canopy over old, packed earth and humus and moss. Common trees includes ash, chestnut, elm, hawthorn, ironwood, oak, sentinel, and soldier pine. At the center of the grove stands an ancient weirwood with a face carved into it, a heart tree standing over a pool of black water. For a moment Jaime is startled but he recovers himself. 

Across the godswood from the heart tree there’s an underground pool that splits in three, with a moss-covered wall looming above them. The godswood is enclosed by walls, and is accessed by a main iron gate, or smaller wooden ones.

The tree gods leer at Jaime as if he’s as unknown to them as they are to him and an uneasiness creeps down his spine but it’s too late to turn back now. 

“You’re a good swordsman,” Lyanna points out rather abruptly. She sounds jealous, envy colouring her tone in ways that Jaime doesn’t understand. Cersei has said similar things, with anger more than envy but Cersei isn’t here and Lyanna is so he’ll have to make do. 

“Jealous?” he drawls our lazily, his stupid grin returning. 

“Maybe,” she mutters through clenched teeth. 

“I could teach you,” Jaime says almost menacingly and a spark is alight in her eyes that resemble gemstones. First, she looks to him incredulously. Second, she looks to him with hope as her pretty features brighten. Third, her mouth is set in a firm line. 

“Why would you do that?” she asks wearily. 

“You don’t want this betrothal and neither do I. However, we’re expected to get to know each other and I don’t know about you but I’d rather not be bored out of my wits and I’d have nothing against my possible future wife wielding a sword.” 

The gears of her head are in motion, he can see, though it’s only fleeting as he’s received with a definitive yes, eyes twinkling like the sapphires of the Sapphire Isles of Tarth. 

“I’d start now but when you dragged me I dropped my sword and I’m not in the mood to retrieve it,” he says dryly. 

Lyanna understands that well enough so she’s happy to postpone their lessons for some days (tomorrow, really) as she strikes up an awkward conversation with him. 

“My mother died on the birthing bed as well,” she says with little propriety and Jaime almost gasps at her bluntness, deciding her words aren’t born out of malice but a strange desire to understand him. 

“I bet your father hates your brother for killing her as well,” he says bitterly because Tyrion is his flesh and blood and Jaime’s heart swells with pride for his younger brother, ashamed that he’s unable to prevent the taunting he receives at the hands of his Lady love. 

“Father doesn’t hate Ben,” she says defensively but much of the tension within her shoulders dissipate and her guard begins to lower, “and I think he loves him.” 

Jaime laughs sourly. “At least there’s a possibility for you. Father hates Tyrion like he’s a beast unleashed to pillage the Westerlands,” he says sombrely. 

“Father’s always ignores me and Benjen.” 

“I wish my father would ignore me.” Hints of melancholy cling to Jaime as a drowning man clings to wreckage and the bitterness within his chest just deepens because he’s Jaime Lannister. His father’s pride and heir. The golden son when all he wants is to be the golden knight, to be the man sings are sang of and for those songs to be true. 

“It must be so hard being a Lannister,” she drawls out and the golden lion almost laughs because he can trace no sense of malice in her tone, just caution. 

“My father wants to marry me to Lysa Tully,” he comes out with abruptly because the thought, even the possibility, still repulses him. 

“Better than Robert Baratheon,” she says with unmasked disdain that drapes every word that escapes her lips and Jaime laughs again. 

“Hasn’t he fathered a bastard?” he mocks her. 

“Probably more than one,” she reveals and he grimaces. And then Jaime’s handsome features contort into something he can’t name because the joviality of Lyanna’s expression is turned to dust as a newfound weariness takes ahold of her features, hardening under the daylight. “You love someone,” she says almost like a child, with less of the reverie coating her voice and more knowingness. 

Jaime could well and easily lie to her but he doesn’t have it within him so he simply nods numbly, still not ready to accept the fact that he and Cersei aren’t fated to be. They were always going to be a sad story but his heart plummets the more he thinks of it because he has a small thread of hope that drags him through the murky waters. 

“Who is she?” Lyanna asks curiously and the Lannister knight is snapped out of his reverie. 

“You don’t need to know,” he says with an edge to his voice. 

“Fine don’t tell me,” she rolls her eyes, “but if I’m to marry you I won’t tolerate a bastard.” And like that the wolf within her chest is unleashed and Jaime smiles at the unlikeliness of it all.

“I’m not sure you’re in a place to tell me what to do,” he replies laughingly and the Stark girl scowls. 

“You may be a Lannister and Lannisters are naught but sinners yet I can see a certain honour cling to you as it does Ned. I wouldn’t say meaningless words if I thought them to be pointless because Robert Baratheon has the famed Baratheon temperament and I fear what he’d do to me should I say such things and yet I believe that you’d never harm a woman so forgive me for thinking so highly of you, Ser Jaime.” Her words are like a slap to his cheek, his face reddening under scrutiny as antipathy drapes all she says. 

“I wouldn’t harm a woman, much less my wife,” he says with a defensive edge to his voice because no matter how much he’ll miss Cersei he has a certain duty to the woman who is to take his name. Perhaps love is impossible but friendship isn’t and Jaime would like that at the very least. 

“I’m glad to hear of it.” Only now does he realise that she's mocking him and so he allows himself to laugh along with her. 

They continue to talk. Of their fathers and their brothers and their mothers and their aspirations and how much they both despise this possible union. Cersei is never mentioned though and Jaime thanks the gods for that. Daylight soon breaks into nightfall as the sun lurks behind puffs of white magic that loiter a dark sky full of stars that shine with the love of a thousand cruel gods and Jaime and Lyanna are forced to abandon their conversation as they make their way back to the Keep with less hatred clinging to their brittle bones. 

As soon as he enters his chambers he’s met with Cersei who glares a glare so scalding it’d melt all the snow in the North twice over. Fury is etched on her beautiful features and Jaime braces himself for what’s to come. “I heard you were with the wolf bitch?” She doesn’t hide the disdain that colours her tone and Jaime grimaces. 

“She might be my wife after all,” he says without a hint of the laughter he’d shared not even ten minutes ago. And then Cersei’s palm meets the side of his face, not too harshly but the pain still stings. “What was that for!?” Even now he’s unable to be angry at her, damned woman. 

“Not even two weeks ago you were loathe to marry Lysa Tully and now you spend your evenings with Lyanna Stark. Perhaps that whore opened her legs for you.” Pure venom drips from her tone and some part of Jaime breaks because he’d suggested to run to Essos and marry his beloved. She’d denied him for her infatuation with the Targaryen Prince who he’s come to loathe. And yet she preaches to him of loyalty. 

“Lysa is a madwoman in the making,” he says freely because it’s the truth. He should feel some ounce of pity but he doesn’t because that’s how it is. 

“And your dearest Lyanna?” Cersei taunts. 

“She isn’t as spiteful as you,” he snarls out with his own poison draping his words and gods is it wonderful to see how her face drops as if he slapped her. Perhaps she’s a madwoman in the making.

“Watch your tone.” 

“No you watch yours. I don’t want to marry Lyanna but you rejected my offer of marriage so I have no choice. Don’t act like you have no part in this because you have more fault than me.” He doesn’t hold back for once as his feelings are finally expressed and it’s relieving because his chest doesn’t ache quite so much. 

“I hope you and the Stark bitch are happy,” she mutters while storming out of his chambers so quickly she fails to see the girl in question standing some feet away with widened eyes. 

But Jaime sees her and he internally curses himself. “How much did you hear.” 

“Enough,” she says with disgust clawing at her words. 

“You can’t tell anyone.” Jaime fails to hide the urgency and it slips into his tone so that it comes out as a threat rather than a warning. 

“And why would I do that?” she asks and the knife twists further. 

“Because you hate Robert Baratheon and if you were to tell anyone then he’s the only option you’ve got.” His words cause her expression to deflate and Jaime knows that he’s won as she gives in with an unwelcoming nod of her head. Some part of him feels guilty but relief clouds all trace of such a feeling and he counts his blessings because thank fuck for that. He lives to fight another day. 

“I’d rather fuck Brandon than Robert,” she eventually says, quietly enough so only he can hear and Jaime bursts out laughing, unable to cover it with propriety. It’s hearty and loud, echoing through the hallways as servants eye him queerly. At one point Ned Stark even passes by with his usual solemness and that only intensifies the humour that nips at Jaime’s flesh. And then it all comes hurtling down. “And you’d rather fuck her than me.” She isn’t bitter, but the disgust refuses to ebb away as they’re both left reeling. 

“I’d try to be a good husband,” he says weakly. 

“That may not be good enough.” She frowns and he sighs. He will never love one as much as he loves Cersei because she’s a part of himself, probably the worst part but she is who she is and they’re both unable to change that. Once, uncle Gerion had called Jaime the worst of their father and the best of their mother while his twin is the very opposite and he’s reminded of such words because now more than ever do they speak true.

“Cersei won’t be at the Rock forever. One day it could work between us.” 

“And how many days do I have, Ser Jaime, before I am to be bartered off like a broodmare to any man my father deems powerful enough?” 

“Lyanna,” he begins unusually lightly. 

“It’s late.” And she leaves with her shadow trailing her, Jaime longing to be that shadow if only for a moment. It’s not love, of course, but it could possibly be something. While annoying at the best of times Lyanna Stark has her wits and wry sense of humour that matches Jaime’s own. She’ll never be as beautiful as Cersei but that beauty is there and he appreciates how she’s assured in herself. And he know he’ll have to wed a Lady one day so why not Lyanna Stark? She isn’t mad or spiteful or just stupid and he believes she’d be a good Lady of the Rock. 

But that matters naught, for his father has already made the betrothal between him and the mad Tully official while Lyanna Stark is to be bartered off to Robert Baratheon. 

*

The Tourney Of Harrenhal is an illuminating event, with nobles from the dunes of Dorne to the mountains of the Vale inhabiting the stands. Lyanna stands alongside her brothers as the joust is set to start, having taken part in the melee firsthand as the knight of the laughing tree where Jaime fucking Lannister had found her and laughed his arse off. 

It could have been worse but the way her cheeks had turned a rosy red continues to haunt her like a ghost and she fucking hates it. Those months at Winterfell seem to be a century ago and yet she can’t stop thinking of him. Perhaps he’s a sisterfucker but at least he’s discreet. With Robert, Lyanna shall be disgraced publicly and it makes her blood boil but her father cares little. 

The Lannister kingsguard had helped Lyanna in ridding herself of the armour and discarding it as if deceit came second nature to him. 

Lannister kingsguard. 

Ser Jaime’s betrothal to Lysa Tully had been confirmed and in the coming days he’d enlisted himself amongst the white cloaks who shit honour. Alongside famed warriors such as Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy, his legacy may well be immortalised as he’d been the youngest kingsguard in history. It’s well and good but Lord Hoster Tully had been most wroth when he’d found out. 

Lyanna had laughed her arse off when she’d found out, Ned unable to understand what’d been so humorous but Brandon and Ben had been just as merry as her, their laughter echoing through the halls as the latter have many fond memories of the Lannister knight while Ned has nothing of the sort. 

He lines up alongside the rest of his sworn brothers, looking just as regal as golden curls sway with the wind. His mere presence causes an array of swooning and it’s disgusting because Lyanna’s cheeks are almost red and fuck she hates it. 

He’s beautiful, in a way that isn’t human because he looks like a god made flesh much like Rhaegar Targaryen. His white cloak is unblemished and he rises with ease. First, he throws Barristan Selmy off his horse in what had taken three tilts. Then, he remains victorious against Arthur Dayne. And then it’s him against Thoros of Myr, a red priest from Essos. At long last Jaime is against the Prince himself and the battle causes a divide between the crowd as each man receives his own support from the ladies who swoon at the mere sight of him. At opposite ends, their horses stride with the agility of jaguars as it’s a flurry of gold and silver, lion and dragon. 

Five tilts it takes to come to a conclusion and the support soon shifts to the golden knight and he wins. Lord Tywin is smug while the bitch Cersei is wroth as she’d been eagerly cheering for Prince Rhaegar which had garnered many surprised glances her way, not that she’d cared. 

He’s handed the crown of winter roses and the simpering increases tenfold as every maiden dreams of being his queen of love and beauty. Lyanna’s impartial, naturally, but her brothers turn to her horror stricken as he rises towards her. Her muscles tense and Robert is furious, which eases her nerves. Were Jaime a wise man (which he clearly is not) he’d seek to rectify his relationship with the Tullys and crown Lady Lysa but all thought has clearly left him. 

Slowly, every pair of eyes is turned to her and the Lannister bitch glares like never before and Lyanna has to stifle her laughter. 

Standing directly before her atop his mount, Jaime looks ever the golden knight but she just sneers as the attention is unwelcome and she quite loudly curses him much to his amusement. “Prissy southron ponce,” she snarls and the expressions of her fellow ladies are horror stricken at her impropriety. 

Jaime just smirks further. “Sadistic snow bitch,” he says with mirth draping every word he utters. It’s maddening, in hindsight, how they’d gotten away with it but they had. Robert is red (Jaime had also knocked him off and Lyanna had mildly cheered for her old friend) and spouting curses to her once betrothed while Jaime moves through the rows with the crown within his grasp, nestling it atop her raven tresses and her flesh tingles at his touch because in another life it’d have been him. As he grazes the strands of hair that cloud her eyes, he shifts them behind her ears while whispering, “I’ve missed you.” His breath is hot against her neck and fuck she’s blushing, like a deep rosy red that’s noticeable even miles away. Before she can say anything back, a melancholic look takes over him and he now speaks loudly for all to hear them. “Goodbye, Lyanna.” And she longs for him to say her name again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like it less than the first two but I still like it so


	4. Half Broken Hearted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bards will sing their songs of Robert Baratheon who’d bled a realm for his darling Lyanna Stark, a queen without a crown. They won’t sing of the revulsion that clings to her bones at the mere sight of him.Victorious, he emerges with one desire: to wed her there and then. Thankfully for her, she’s found by Ned only a day after Robert had married Cersei Lannister. And thus Tywin Lannister approaches her with a menacing stare, and her insides collapse.

Jaime’s breath catches in his throat, the air taken out of his lungs. Her golden silk thread for hair is styled intricately, ringlets cascading down her back while also held up. She’s garmented in a gown of soft ivory that resembles snowfall, a plunging neckline revealing her ample breasts he longs to claim as his own. Wearing a proud smile with emerald opals that gleam like pennies during rainfall, she reaches the dais where Robert Baratheon stands, gruff and stoic for a man so flamboyant. His lips are set in a straight line, devoid of emotion as he stands before her.

There’s a feral beast within Jaime’s beast. Angry and heartbroken and disappointed and so fucking confused. Lyanna Stark is but a wild child while Cersei embodies the beauty of the sunlight and starlight and the moonlight. His chest aches with something horrible as she leaves his side forever, and jealousy is a cretin as it creeps up behind him and consumes him whole. But men like Robert Baratheon are seldom lucky marry one as beautiful as half is heart, Jaime’s anger intensifying at this blatant disrespect he shows to his sister.

He watches with the heartbreak of a sad man as her maiden’s cloak is removed. Some part of him wishes to evaporate there and then, to become naught but dust but women like Cersei desire ashes of a burnt stub, not dust that only creates annoyances.

He wonders, what legacy would he leave behind? The false knight who’d failed to protect Elia and Rhaenys and Aegon. The kingsguard who’d abandoned his king in his hour of direst need (he regrets that little, of course). The man of dishonour who’d saved a city from treachery only to be met with ostracisation.

He hates his father. Well and truly. The children were good, Elia was good. What he’d felt for her had been a sisterly affection he should feel for Cersei, willing to go to the ends of the earth for her and yet she’s dead. Burnt. Buried. Bled out. Bruised. Bloody. Her children’s corpses are naught but ruins, bodies caved in and insides dangling from their stomach and fuck he feels sick just thinking about it.

 _I’m glad you let the Dornish cunt die_ , Cersei had said. His heart had broken into a thousand pieces, shattering like shards of glass that embed themselves into his flesh and bleed him dry. That wasn’t a haemorrhage, it was the collapse of his insides as the sun shrivelled and moon wilted. She’d never known him. Not truly.

Their deaths had been for some girl who’d forsaken her duty and bled a realm. Jaime may be dishonourable but he hadn’t damned a woman whose sweetness clung to her bones, a girl who’d wanted nothing more than to run to the ends of the earth with Balerion, a boy who’d coo at the sight of Jaime and laugh with childish joy.

Dead and damned, they are, and fuck does it hurt.

Elia had been a true beauty of the sun with skin luminescence made flesh and eyes that resembled pools of honey against the sunlight. She’d grown into a curvaceous body after the birth of Aegon, the curve of her hips refined and the weight of her chest amplified. She’d been a sweet summer’s song. And Cersei is not.

He’d been sick when she’d said those words, spewing the contents of his stomach into the basin of his chambers and then he’d wept and wept and wept. For life and love and the loss of humanity that will haunt him forevermore. For the children he’d failed to protect, the galaxy of a woman who deserved more.

Rhaegar had always been a madman, manifesting his insanity into false hope and stupid prophecies. Jaime had seen the sprouts before they’d been seeded because he had the look of a madman. No one will ever know how he’d resembled Aerys.

And all for a girl of barely sixteen. In front of hundreds he’d disgraced Elia Martell, sun of Dorne. Fuck Rhaegar Targaryen and Aerys and his father and Robert and Ned and Lyanna Stark whose judgement is worthless because he hadn’t damned a realm. 

In another life he’d have saved Elia Martell and her children.

Robert clasps the Baratheon cloak around Cersei’s shoulders, the vows said devoid of life and love. Their kiss is chaste and Jaime almost gags, the disgust he feels for her ebbing away because it should be his lips against hers, his tongue in her mouth, his name she moans as she comes. But some things just aren’t meant to be and Jaime would do good to realise that.

The feast is a hearty affair, Jaime secluding himself to a corner alongside Tyrion whose eyes are wondrous. Tyrion who only knows contempt and condemnation, death and damnation. All he can do is hope that his innocence clings to him because the gods have never done anything for him nor will they do anything now. Fuck the gods.

Cersei scathingly glares ahead as Robert pulls a servant wench into his lap, and Jaime’s face contorts to one of horror. Tyrion laughs. “She deserves it.”

“Maybe she does,” he agrees because he’d begged her to run off with him. To marry him in the dead of light as they’d flee to Essos where their names would be naught but words in the wind. And still all he wants is her.

As the feast comes to an end, there’s a call for the bedding and Robert no longer seems so robust as lust clouds his battle hardened features. Jaime is disgusted.

Unable to watch as other men touch her, the disgraced Lannister knight heads to his chambers. One would expect him to threaten Robert, to forbid him from hurting her as most brothers do during beddings and yet he knows that Cersei will always have the advantage. So he leaves with Tyrion, jesting and japing and crying.

It’s pathetic, how a boy of nine name days has to watch him weep and soothe him for what feels like centuries. Tyrion’s always been good like that, guarding his deepest secrets with the loyalty every brother should have. And then his brother leaves to fall in a slumber of his own and Jaime’s by his lonesome, wishing for death and damnation to be bestowed before him.

*

He wakes to the murmuring of servant’s gossip. The dragon bitch is back, they mutter. Some part of Jaime loathes to believe that the whore who’d caused it all is alive while Elia rots. While his honour is destroyed as she’s deemed naught more than a foolish girl. He weeps again, praying to Elia and Rhaenys and Aegon and his lady mother because it should have been him. It should have been him.

Lifelessly gliding through the halls, he’s pulled into one of the chambers on his left. Entering the door of red oak, Cersei pulls him into a ferocious kiss which he’s unable to return. For heartache and sorrow. His antipathy wounds her and she stops.

“She’s alive,” she says bitterly, like Dornish red at the back of her throat.

Jaime laughs a sour laugh as Cersei’s gaze falls from bloom to bloom. “Let me guess, you’d have me kill her?” His heart wrenches further.

“When he’d finished Robert had moaned her name.” The disgust towards a dead girl walking is one he couldn’t care less about in spite of his own qualms with the Stark girl. It should have been her. “He wants her to be his Queen.”

“Then he’d have a civil war,” Jaime says dryly.

“Unless she dies of mysterious circumstances.” Her eyes gleam.

“Or,” Jaime begins and her face crumbles, knowing what he’s about to suggest, “you marry me. We run to Essos and never look back. Nothing could stop us.” He hates how desperate he sounds but all he wants is to tangle his limbs with hers and have her writhing like a snake beneath him. It’s all he knows. Fighting and fucking.

“I am queen.” No woman who says I am Queen is the queen, Jaime refrains from saying.

“First you were _mine_ ,” Jaime says so painstakingly raw, mustering every ounce of heartbreak he can into four syllables that break him as little Aegon’s head had been. Weakness clings to him as wreckage clings to a drowning man but what else is he to do? How can he imagine a life without Cersei?

“I’ll convince Robert to place you back in the kingsguard, Jaime, we can still be together.” And the skies held upon his shoulders shatter like glass, bleeding him dry because Jaime Lannister is a man who loves with every fibre in his body and now he is losing that.

“I won’t guard another cruel king, not again.” Everyday he wakes to the smell of roasting flesh as the eyes of a madman loom over him, taunting him as his amethyst opals turn lifeless and blood coats the blade of Jaime’s sword. Robert had laughed at the corpses of children and for what it’s worth Jaime will curse him till the end of his days.

“I won’t give up my crown for your childish delusions,” she says harshly, watching him storm out with shame, waiting for him to come back, because Jaime always comes back. But he doesn’t this time, no matter the hours she waits.

*

He sees her, for a fleeting moment. She’s all darkness as ebony tresses tumble down her back like waves, as grey eyes peer at him ominously, melancholy clinging to her. Jaime sneers her way, unable to blame his father for their deaths because how can he show his contempt for Lord Tywin Lannister? So Lyanna Stark will have to bear the brunt of his failures. And damn her for it.

Robert, naturally, insists on wedding her there and then regardless of Jaime’s sister who may possibly bear his child. Needless to say, Jon Arryn is highly against it as he reminds the oaf king of the chances of another civil war. Robert’s temper isn’t simmered but he allows the matter to be left for the marrow as he indulges himself in another whore.

He only sees her in passing moments, glaring stonily towards the girl who’d taken it all. Because how can he blame Arthur Dayne and the looney king and Rhaegar Targaryen when they’re all dead? No, he’ll say Lyanna Stark’s name like the curse it is.

And then his father enters his chambers one night as Robert had departed for a brothel some minutes ago. Jaime wears his hatred like a crown but Lord Tywin is a man of cruelty and callousness and so he doesn’t care and fuck him and Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch. Fuck them all. The cruel gods and his prideful sister and Lyanna Stark.

“You are to wed Lyanna Stark,” he says coldly.

“No,” he says with defiance.

“Excuse me?” Jaime has never been so resistant against his father, perhaps when he’d enlisted in the kingsguard but never anything else.

“She killed Elia and Rhaenys and Aegon. I won’t do it.” His father is calm at the mention of their names and Jaime wants to evaporate on the spot, for his failures to be marked with naught but his ashes because it hurts so bitterly. And it only deepens with time because this is a growing illness and he misses them every fucking day.

“If you want to blame someone for their deaths blame me but you will not shirk your duty.” He’s like a statue of stone and ice and steel and iron and how could Jaime’s father be more automaton than man? How has he made himself a God turned flesh?

“As you shirked your duty to Aerys?” he asks scornfully. His father huffs and he feels as if he’s won.

“Watch your tone.”

“No.” Give are days where Jaime would fear the wrath of his father because that boy is dead. Now he is the kingslayer. Nothing more and nothing less.

“If you do not marry her then another civil war will ensure. What happened to Elia Martell? Could well happen to your sister if we aren’t careful. So you will marry Lyanna Stark and impregnate her because Robert Baratheon can’t risk our wrath. We our the only house he can’t fight against. You marry her in ten minutes.” Of course he’d use that against Jaime who stares blankly for some moments, processing the fact that he’ll marry her. He’d like to be clawed with Robert’s hammer, to die like the coward he is.

He storms off and he tells Cersei, hoping to change her mind. She sneers and slaps him, scorns and berates him but never once does she relent to his ardent longing. No, the sister he loved may well be dead but she isn’t damned and for that he will always be thankful.

Now dressed in velvet doublet of crimson alongside a white tunic and black leather breeches, Jaime stands at the dais with naught but hatred clinging to his bones. He doesn’t look as Lyanna Stark’s brought up to him by her toad faced brother, doesn’t care about the weariness in her eyes. She wears a simple gown of northern colours, nothing like the intricacy of Cersei’s gown nor is she so beautiful though she isn’t entirely ugly.

He removes her maiden cloak, his touch almost making her shiver. And then he clasps the Lannister cloak around her shoulders, swiftly. And then they say their vows with ardent hatred and his lips are against hers for a brief and chaste kiss. One heart, one soul, one flesh. Now and forever.

Amongst the guests as well as his father and Ned Stark are Tyrion and Jon Arryn. If he could Jaime would weep in his brother’s arms again and yet he’s practically forced to their bedchambers with his new wife.

He’d appreciate a silent walk. But she can’t even give him that. “You hate me?” She isn’t fearful, just cautious.

“Why would anyone hate the famed Lyanna Stark?” he japes bitterly, her name a curse on his lips.

“I was willing at first but he wouldn’t let me leave,” she says numbly, like the pain never ebbs away. “So was I not a prisoner?” she asks as if she needs his validation.

“Your childish desires bled a realm.” He can’t help himself because he sees their faces everyday. “Your father burned while your brother was strangled. Elia was raped and killed while her killer had the blood of her babes on his hands.” He says it so painstakingly raw because he can’t even begin to understand what Elia had felt in those moments. _Did she curse my name?_

“I will regret my actions everyday,” she says timidly, “but Rhaegar was a monster,” she says firmly.

“Aye that he was,” Jaime laughs sourly, “damned prophecies.”

“I never thought Robert would allow it.” And the timidness is back.

“Men are cruel. You’d do well to realise that.” Because Jaime had learnt the hard way, with Rhaella’s shrieks haunting him to this very day. Fuck the kingsguard.

“I’d like to believe you’re better,” she says still weary, “better than they are at least.” There’s a tendril of hope in her voice, that he isn’t as cruel as his predecessors and he isn’t but he can’t help his coldness.

“I won’t force myself on you if that’s what you mean.” And the facade breaks, just a little.

“You shouldn’t look at your sister that way,” she fires back and crumbling realisation dawns on Jaime as he stares at Lyanna, horror stricken. This day couldn’t get any worse.

“If you tell anyone,” he begins threateningly but she’s already interrupting him.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she insists. “I’m sorry about Elia,” she then says while retreating into her bubble. And what can Jaime say to that? That he has to blame her since he can’t blame himself because if he blames himself he’ll take the coward’s way out and end it all and leave Tyrion to a loveless life? Hasn’t his brother suffered enough?

The rest of the walk is in silence as they analyse each other, Jaime unable to eliminate every slither of contempt but at least he understands her better.

Once in their chambers, she kisses him like she’s been starved of air and affection for centuries. Her lips are soft and her touch is feral, almost ripping his doublet apart as she unlaces it. Understanding the possibilities of what could happen should he not bed Lyanna Stark, Jaime allows her to do as she pleases. Her hands roam his bare chest, stopping at the scars he’s acquired, dragging her fingers across them tenderly and fuck it hurts.

Left in naught but her shift, Jaime has the pleasure of unlacing it as it falls to a crumpled mess at her feet, both as bare as their name days. She pushes him to the bed with a force he wouldn’t think her capable of. And she’s on him as he leans against the headboard, cries of pleasure escaping her lips. Jaime’s able to stay silent. Until she drags her nails up his chest in a way so achingly similar.

He comes with a curse on his lips and a blessing in his eyes.

She rolls off of him and falls into a fitful slumber while promises invade his thoughts as he twists and turns with the feeling of Lyanna’s touch lingering on his flesh. A promise sealed with unchaste kisses and sorrow and uncertainties and heartache. As honour and duty unravelled, a vow had been forsaken as his virtue prevailed and now their names will be intertwined forevermore with a new vow. One that should be of love and homage and fidelity and prosperity. But Lyanna Stark May well be the demise of Jaime Lannister.

*

The morrow passes, and Robert’s still in the brothel so they ride away first thing to Casterly Rock. Jaime isn’t even able to say goodbye to Cersei, no one but Tyrion hear to keep him safe.

They talk on their journey, because it’d be foolish not to. He learns more about Brandon Stark and Benjen Stark, of Howland Reed and the stable boys. In turn she learns more about Tyrion, of his love for dragons and how Jaime’s own dreams shattered like glass before him.

It’s too much understanding for his liking.

Somehow, they haven’t yet been found by Robert’s men and Lyanna prays that they never will.

And when they arrive she gasps, and Jaime understands that all she longs for is Winterfell. To be within the icy braziers and the frozen wasteland she calls home. He won’t begrudge her of that.

They’re met with their uncles and aunts, all slightly weary at her arrival but Gerion breaks the silence with a lingering kiss to her knuckles. Then Kevan with a stoic and stern introduction, following him is Tygett with unrivalled awkwardness. Their wives are much better at this, Dorna and Darlessa calling her a true beauty as Genna takes a critical analysis of her own.

And then they do fuck knows what.

*

Neither of them had wanted this marriage. They’d been convinced with the same warning by his father. They haven’t shared a bed since their wedding night. Hell, they hardly see each other. Jaime spends his days fighting when once he’d spent them fighting and fucking.

Addam Marbrand and Tyrion are often in his company, while Lyanna does fuck knows what. He’ll oft see her at dinner wear she’ll jest with his brother who tells her of his dreams of ashes and desires. A friendship is forged before his very eyes, and some part of him wishes she’d married Tyrion instead because then he wouldn’t be dragging a somewhat innocent girl down with this emptiness he feels.

One night, he takes a walk to the cliffs he knows like the back of his hand. For peace of mind. Only he sees her there, ridding herself of her gown and diving in and fuck Jaime’s heart is beating in his chest because she’s ending it all. As he’s dreamed of.

Without taking off his shoes or his tunic, he flings himself into the Sunset sea, searching for his wife who bobs up a second later with curiosity etched on her proud features.

Both of their hair is wet and he realises that she’s laughing damned girl.

“Why are you laughing?” he asks angrily, swimming to get closer to her, her wrists within his firm grip.

“You thought I was killing myself?” she replies laughingly.

“You jumped off a cliff!” he exclaims.

“You used to do this,” she points out. And he looks down. “Oh,” she then says timidly.

“It’s nothing,” he says to brush off any concern she may feel.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Determination colours her tone, loosening under his touch as she’d once writhed like a snake.

“I failed them,” he chokes out like a sob, unable to mask the raw emotion that colours his tone and instils him with a melancholy the silver prince had possessed. It haunts him.

“You should never have been there. It should have been Arthur Dayne but he guarded me as I was raped daily.” A harrowing tone clouds her voice, no doubt recalling all she’s survived and his heart pangs for the love he isn’t able to give.

“And they call him noble,” he whispers.

“I never said thank you,” she says while biting her lips.

“For what?”

“He killed my brother and my father. I don’t know why you killed him nor will I ask out of respect for you but thank you, Ser Jaime, for killing Aerys. It makes me sleep easier.” Her tone is a hybrid of pure emotion, features etched in her own shame because this is the dragon whore talking to the kingslayer. The gods have a fickle sense of humour indeed. And respect. Jaime hasn’t been given any in so long. Ned Stark who’d judged him on arrival. His father who’d never asked believing it to be out of duty. Cersei who’d never cared. No one had cared that he’d chosen his vows of knighthood over his vows of the kingsguard who are enslaved by truth and bounded by duty. Duty. The very thing that had been the justification for abiding the tyranny that had started the rebellion in the first place.

“He was going to burn the city,” Jaime replies nimbly. And before Lyanna can say anything his mouth is against hers, teeth clashing into each other’s as her hands are firmly nestled within his hair, his hands gripping the curve of her arse. And then they separate, blankets of rainfall nipping at their flesh.

Already soaking wet, Jaime has little problem but Lyanna almost squeals and beg that they head inside as she laces the ties of her gown once more. The guards meet them solemnly, though there’s traces of curiosity etched on their features. Not that he cares.

When inside, Tyrion almost clashes into him as he hands him a letter. Lyanna had sent many to Robert, swearing that she’d wanted to marry Jaime. She’d not mentioned love of any sorts but her approval had been clear. First he’d been insistent on executing Jaime, then once he’d realised he couldn’t do that he swore to annul his marriage to Cersei somehow. As if both marriages haven’t been consummated.

This letter, a seal of black and gold, is much simpler because Jaime reads that his sister is with child. The heir, possibly, so that they’ll never touch each other again. And that’s that.

They all spend that night drowning themselves in wine, Jaime in particular drunk on dismay. It’s not horrible company, because like his brother Lyanna is a sensible drunk while Jaime isn’t. So he’s almost lost in his senses till Lyanna drags him to his chambers with the help of some men. He looks weak but he couldn’t care less, not right now, even as Tyrion sniggers.

Both drunk, they almost tumble into his chambers. And before they know it his mouth is hot against hers, unlacing her gown and tearing her shift while she rips his tunic off and unbuckles his belt with ease. And then they’re naked in front of each other for the first time since their wedding night. 

Jaime places his hands at the back of her neck while she placed hers into his hair. His tongue enters her mouth and they fight for dominance, one that he enjoys as she doesn’t allow him to have complete control. She bites his bottom lip and he groans into her as she swallows it up. 

And then she wraps her legs around him and he carries her to the feathered bed. Between her legs, Jaime is so heart achingly tender. In ways Lyanna thought him unable to be. He kisses her like it’s her, like it’s only ever been her. With reverence and lust hanging off his lips. The way he cradles the swell of her breast would make a Reach girl blush with shame, his rhythm soft and slow as he loiters her body with trails of burning kisses. She cries out in pleasure while he buries himself in the crook of her neck, sucking on the slope of her shoulder with tenderness and ferocity simultaneously. His teeth grazes her flesh and marks are sure to be left as he ravages her. Lyanna drags her nails down his back and no longer does Jaime think of Cersei but her as she rolls her hips against his and says his name like an incantation. Like a blessing. 

And she pulls his head to be directly above her’s. To look upon the fragility that is Jaime Lannister and appreciate him all the more because he may not have wanted this marriage but he’s treated her better than they ever would have. It’s not love in her eyes, gods no, but a kind of admiration for the man who’d sacrifice it all for his loved ones. And she claims his lips, he who tastes of summer wine and has a scent of the saltwater she’s now accustomed to. 

They finish inside each other and he says her name in pleasure thrice. First, he slurs the L as if this is only an action brought of drinking. Like he can’t breathe. Second, he says it like he understands that it’s now him and her, never anyone else. Third, he says it like a soft prayer as her wetness is against his chest. Lips and cheeks reddened, limbs tangled and hearts beating as one, they stay like that for the rest of the night. She within his arms and he inhaling her scent of the forest. Like nature personified. 

* 

Forced back to the Capitol on his father’s orders, they arrive begrudgingly. She’s now four moons along while Robert drowns his sorrows in mundane pleasures, but he’s here to greet them. 

After fucking the previous night, Lyanna’s neck is covered in love bites. And she’s able to hide most of them but Robert sees one and he bellows. “The kingslayer’s fucking my Lyanna,” he growls like a ravenous beast and they run. 

They’d meant to go to their assigned chambers but they run into Ned Stark and when Jaime says he sneers he means it. However he and Lyanna embrace like children, the Stark Lord ruffling his sister’s hair as a soft smile is etched on his lips. And then he glares at Jaime. But before he can say anything Lyanna gets to it first. “He saved the city.” 

“He killed his king,” he says with disdain. 

“He was your king as well,” Jaime sneers. 

“Aerys was going to burn the city,” Lyanna cajoles. 

And as Ned Stark is left gaping Lyanna drags Jaime into their chambers and they’re at it again. That’s all they do, fight and fuck because why not. Her cries of pleasure are to be heard miles away as Robert almost storms in. That doesn’t quench the desire that hangs off their lips, though, and so they continue to explore each other’s body the only way they know how. His head between her legs, hers between his, his lips encircling the bud of her breasts. They like it this way. 

Only, the next morning Jaime notices a swelling to her stomach and they laugh heartily because Robert’s going to go feral. They announce it a feast, and then they kiss each other as unchastely as humanely possible while Cersei stares daggers. Jaime doesn’t care as much, but it still hurts. Though Lyanna’s there to keep him sane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ik I’ve been writing young Jaime interestingly but I feel like this is the best portrayal because it shows that he’s feeling shame and loss and regret and sorrow and heartache and just everything at once. He understands that Lyanna was imprisoned but can’t forgive her for running away with him in the first place because this is very Elia centric in certain aspects. His slow severance from Cersei comes from his disgust at her words even though he still loves her and you see that he never really stops.


	5. Let Me Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A single strike had brought Robert Baratheon down, his blood nourishing the lands of the Riverlands forevermore. Rhaegar Targaryen had returned to the Capitol with shame hanging over his head, Lyanna Stark in tow with the rumours unravelling thread by thread. Meanwhile Elia Martell had been in purgatory, seeking solace in Jaime Lannister and praying to nonexistent gods for the survival of her children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda different and a take on if Lyanna did it all willingly and Rhaegar still being mad but not quite as mad as I imagine him to be. Mainly focused on Elia but there’s bits of Jaime and Lyanna so yeah.

Forever disgraced, the Princess Elia had expected to be discarded like naught more than a broodmares sent back to the dunes of Dorne where she did live the rest of her days out in harmony for her motherland has always been sacred. Hence, the further disrespect of the Stark girl being kept there while she’d rotted away under Aerys’ scrutiny is hard hitting. 

Arthur, the man she’d once known and loved, had all but died. No longer is he the knight who’d make promises of eternal love and fidelity and homage for his white cloak is one blemished with the dishonour of a thousand cruel gods. Only Ser Jaime Lannister, a boy of mere sixteen years, had been left to safeguard her. 

And what a protecter he’d been. 

Rhaenys, so scared and unknowing of what was to come, would cling to the Lannister knight. She’d hop on his back, into his arms, around his legs, calling him her golden knight, which Ser Jaime had taken with stride. He’d been a good companion to have but Elia mourns for the boy who’d been damned. Once he’d been jovial but all sense of life within him had soon dissipated into a solemn boy whose dreams had crumbled beneath him. 

He’d retreat into a stone cold gaze when called upon by Aerys, when really he was glass. The boy had grown a thousand lifetimes in those times, dreaming of death and damnation and wishing for an end to it all. 

He’d been so young and hopeful and foolish. 

Because life isn’t a song. 

And Elia knows that too well. 

But she’ll allow herself to mourn that boy who’d always have a charming smile that’d make all the ladies swoon. The boy who’d dreamt of knightly valour. The boy who’d been forced to put a sword through his king because unlike his sworn brothers he couldn’t abide tyranny. The boy who resurfaced and chose his vows of knighthood over his vows of the kingsguard. 

Elia and the babes had been in the throne room when it all unveiled. 

Rhaegar’s army was approaching to the city gates, Varys insisting the king open them to allow his son safe pass. It’s well known that Aerys’ madness knows no bound, paranoia akin to his insanity. He’d thought Rhaegar to kill him on the spot as those gates opened. 

I’ll let him rule over charred remains, he’d spouted with rage. His pyromancers had been on command, and Jaime had slain them without much thought. Aerys was soon next. No longer did his eyes dance with frightening fragility because there was nothing there. As if Jaime had killed naught more than a kindly old man in cold blood. 

An oath breaker, he’d have been named. And so he and Elia had escaped the throne room into the maiden’s vault, confined from the gaudy shouts which had terrified her little Aegon. 

They’d waited. And waited. And waited. The shouting ceased, silence engulfing all and so Jaime and Elia ran into the throne room where his father had stood alongside the new king. 

Lord Tywin had assisted Rhaegar in the war for his son and heir had been held hostage, the golden child. Her husband had not won through his own means, the Lannister Lord having greatly influenced the war. 

And then she came into view. Lyanna Stark. The wolf bitch. The dragon whore. The girl who’d taken it all from under her feet. Her flesh had been ghastly pale, eyes nervous and hair cascading in messy waves. She and Elia had locked eyes only for a moment, shame etched on the features of the Stark girl while the Martell Princess had grown in rage. 

Elia would have thought Jaime to separate himself from his vows then and there but he’d walked up to her and guided her away. Into the gardens. His touch had been delicate, as if she’d been a woman of glass whose shards were embedding themselves into her flesh and bleeding her dry because this wasn’t just the collapse of her insides this was the shrivelling of the sun and death of the moon.

Little did they know that Rhaegar and his lackeys had followed them. Perhaps they did but they didn’t care. Elia had fallen limp into his arms, Rhaenys by her side and Aegon in her arms. Tears refused to fall from her eyes as he’d clutched his fingers into her ebony tresses, both shrouded in numbing numbness. 

His embrace had been warm, the world around them ebbing away. Tender, in ways words could never be. Stretching into infinity because she and Jaime had lived in hell for an eternity and no one will ever know the life that had been taken from them. The sun and the lion, melted to molten gold. An entanglement of two who’d almost lost it all. 

After, she’d begged him to walk away from his vows. To leave this god forsaken city and find prosperity within Casterly Rock. To leave her and Rhaenys and Aegon because he’s destined to be so much more than one of Rhaegar’s dogs. 

Her pleas were heard by all, Arthur dejected as his features had been etched in sorrow as if he’d been the one betrayed despite how he’d abandoned Elia when she most needed him. 

And, well, he’d refused. 

His father had been most wroth but Jaime had explained his reasoning behind closed doors. To protect you, he’d said. Because the rest of the kingsguard are naught more than Rhaegar’s dogs. No doubt the newest two additions will be as well, those in replacement of Jonothor Darry and her uncle Lewyn. 

Uncle Lewyn. The man who’d lost his life for hers and Gods does she weep for him. 

Naturally, rumours escalate over the next three years. Jaime is Elia’s confidant and her friend, the only person she truly trusts outside of her immediate family. He’s the brother she’s never had, nothing more and nothing less. The only one who’s seen her at her best and at her worst. 

Jaime is Jaime. 

Yet noble (wicked) men and women still whisper of her love affair with the Lannister lion, cuckolding her husband as if he hadn’t done the same to her in a much grander scale as age old blood nourishes the lands of the Riverlands. 

Rhaegar dwells in his madness, locking himself up within his solar and only Arthur is permitted entry. He goes over his scrolls and his damned prophecies, leaving Lyanna and Aemon to dwell by themselves for court has never truly warmed to the pair. 

No one had escaped unscathed from this war. Mothers mourn sons and lovers mourn almost lovers while the people who’d taken it all stand live and well. Bitterness encases court for theirs is a song of blood and fire. As are his house words. 

Once, Arthur had cornered the pair of them in an alleyway and demanded to know the nature of their relationship. His eyes had been gaunt and his skin hollow because those are the workings of a madman and Arthur is the closest confidant to one. He’d been jealous, naturally, begging Elia to forgive his sins as if the affects don’t still linger like dragon fire. He is the only friend I have, Elia had answered truthfully because that’s what Jaime is to her. And fuck anyone who thinks otherwise. 

In those moments she’d recalled the time Arthur had snuck into the palace walls, into her chambers, loitering her flesh with trails of burning kisses and touching her lips with reverence and wanting and desire that had blossomed between her legs for him and only for him. He’d taken her maidenhood that night, Elia’s honour bare for him to see. 

Oh how she regrets that escapade. 

In another life she wishes Lord Tywin had accepted the marriage betrothal her mother had desired between she and Jaime. Nothing romantic lingers between them and yet they’d be good to each other. There’d be a companionship, a mutual trust and respect for each other and Jaime wouldn’t disgrace her in front of hundreds and run off into the night with his new lady love. 

Jaime would be true. 

He’d told her of his tryst with his twin sister. Elia had been unable to be repulsed for she’d only seen Jaime who she’d sought her solace in. Those dwellings had mattered little, no matter how the knight had spoke of his other half. 

Now, they wander through the halls of the Red Keep. In an act of folly they’d once attempted to discover all the secret passageways Maegor had built, losing themselves in the tunnels till nightfall where Rhaegar and his dogs had been most wroth with Jaime for abandoning his duty. This is his duty, she’d said pointedly to her bastard husband. 

While Rhaegar is a madman he’s won over the love of the common peoples for each year he hosts an event in which highborn and lowborn alike gather up to ask one thing of their dutiful king. Whatever is within his power is what he’ll give. The only outright refusals are his throne and the hands of his children in marriage. He titles it the People’s Day, as if it makes up for all the strife he’s created. 

“Your sister is here,” she says. 

“As are your brothers.” The grim dissatisfaction colours his tone at the mention of his beloved and Elia chuckles. 

“It’s been years.” He doesn’t reply so she continues. “I heard she’s wedded to Stannis Baratheon.” 

Jaime scowls. “The man’s so up his own arse he doesn’t even shit normally.” They pass some members of court as the words escape his lips, Elia smirking as the giggling naturally arises. 

“I’m sure you could find a fine woman to wed.” Now they pass Queen Lyanna alongside little Aemon who is very much his mother’s son. The Stark girl looks longingly to Jaime and only Elia notices, offering the woman who’d stolen her husband a nonchalant shrug in response because this problem isn’t hers. 

Jaime has established himself as the best swordsman in the realm, overtaking even Arthur as they had once partaken in a duel watched by all. The golden knight had had Elia’s favour, naturally. And Lyanna often gazes like that, most neglected by their shared husband, having gained an affinity for a man who looks like a god made flesh with luminescence for hair. Yes, Elia can understand her regard for Jaime but nor does care for it. 

“Very funny,” he replies dryly. 

“I mean it, Jaime.” They have long since abandoned all sense of propriety, addressing each other only with names much to the displeasure of their sovereign and his fellow sworn brothers. “Forsake your vows, you still have time.” Nearing the age of one-and-twenty, Jaime is still an eligible bachelor to be wed and one much revered amongst the kingdoms as unsavoury rumours had advanced. Of her dearest friend slaying the mad king in cold blood, to which Elia had furiously revealed the atrocities of that night. He’s known not as the Kingslayer once branded by his sworn brothers but as the Kingmaker for he had determined Rhaegar’s throne, a feat which troubles her husband incessantly. 

“Forsake your vows,” he replies with a touch of humour. “And then I’ll gladly see the back of this city.” King’s Landing is hardly the stuff of songs for its odour is one so putrid it makes one weep. The flowers of the gardens even possess an ugliness for they had been chosen for their fragrance not their beauty. Even then, it reeks of death and shit and everything bad in this rotten world. 

“Would that I could,” is Elia’s response with a touch of melancholy and bitterness. She’d thought Rhaegar would banish her back to Dorne, allowing her to live her days in harmony and prosperity but king bastard had different plans. 

Elia is unable to understand her husband’s reasoning. And her brothers had been all too willing to ignite another war for their Princess. She’d forbidden them, naturally, making each of her own heart to swear upon their deceased mother’s name. Oberyn had seen it as a betrayal while Doran had smiled sadly, eyes glazed over. 

“Say the word,” Jaime drawls our earnestly. His disdain for Rhaegar is known throughout the realm, it truly being the stuff of songs how his devotion is to Elia and Elia alone. The bards call them Criston Cole and Alicent Hightower reincarnated but the Dornish Princess takes mild offence to such words because Jaime may well be her own Aemon the Dragonknight. “Say the word and he won’t see the light of the morrow.” Disdain is an understatement to his feelings for he detests the Targaryen King, his rose coloured vision having shattered like fragments of glass at his feet as this new worldly perspective encases him like a reverie. Perhaps a nightmare. His voice is cold and callous as he speaks of her husband, more than willing to become the Kingslayer once more. 

A moment of hesitation catches her by surprise before they’re summoned to the People’s Day. She internally groans. “Lead the way, Ser Jaime.” He scowls at her formality but obeys her command nonetheless. 

Noblemen and women from the plumes of flowery lands and glaciers of ice encase the Great Hall, southerners and northmen alike conversing with a hint of hostility. Years have passed and the aftermath has not yet ceased for theirs is a song of fire and blood. Lyanna flutters between her two brothers, weariness etched on their hardened features as the oldest withers between buried soil for the unconditional love he bore his sister. 

A love that will haunt her forevermore. 

The northmen possess no love for their Northern Queen, greeting her with cold courtesies and frosty glances because the bones of their sons and brothers and uncles and husbands and fathers are broken beneath cracked ground. 

The Westermen and Dornish alike possess a special hatred for Rhaegar, in remembrance of their imprisoned Prince and Princess who’d so very nearly lost their lives for faults not taken by their own hands. 

The Rivermen and Valemen grow in vengeance for their liege Lords had been sent to the Wall in punishment for their treasonous actions. Elbert Arryn deceased, Harold Hardyng had taken the Arryn name when befitted with his seat. Should another war be ignited no doubt the Tullys would ally themselves with the Starks and the crown in turn for they value family above all but Elia has no doubt that their bannermen would go against them. 

The Stormlands are a land of fragile peace for the dour Stannis Baratheon is a man of duty and no doubt has he forgotten the duty he’d had to his brother. An impressive man, he’d been, outlasting a siege for the better part of a year to stop Mace Tyrell’s men from joining the war cause. Elia had been sure to visit the home of Robert Baratheon in spite of the lingering fact that he’d have slaughtered her children in cold blood, expressing her sorrow at his death. Little Renly Baratheon had been a gaunt creature, hollow and frail as his bones were on show and Elia had almost wept because the boy had been five. Five with only a boy of sixteen to care for him. She’d been sure to encourage Doran to trade with Lord Stannis, proclaiming them friends. The Baratheon brothers are here now, stood to the side as they avoid conversation with anyone else as they do retreated into Storm’s End for the better part of three years. They’d been all but forced to attend this joyous occasion. 

The Reach are only Rhaegar’s true allies, and even then many of the flower Lords are furious at Gerold Hightower who’d stood pretty at a tower while his kinsmen were dying. 

Elia had always liked him the least, implying that Jaime’s desire to do good was an act of folly. 

Of all the kingsguard bar her uncle Ser Oswell had always been her favourite, the man having made no excuses for his actions and accepting that he’d been a lesser man for it. 

“I can practically taste the tension,” Jaime says distastefully. He then turns to her. “Where are Rhaenys and Aegon?” 

“Didn’t I tell you that I’d sent them to Dorne against Rhaegar’s orders?” she asks innocently. 

“The Dornish sun will do them good,” he replies with mirth. 

“Tell that to him,” she feigns real annoyance. 

“I can do more,” he says nonchalantly. She smacks him on his elbow, drawing the attention of the Reachmen who glare at her as they’d pray for her death in the midst of summer. 

“One day I’ll show you the Water Gardens my Dragonknight,” Elia japes with affection. Ser Arthur crosses their path with slight unsettlememt at her words, a frown tugging at her lips which she ignores. 

“It’s better than Lionheart,” he returns in good humour. 

“Yes I’m sure Lyanna had intended to bruise your ego.” Elia had once held naught but dislike for the Stark girl that’s since morphed into a slight sympathy but that’s able to be quenched well enough. 

Before Jaime can reply, the ceremony starts as men of all stations ask for a number things. From endless stocks of food to carts and horses and wood to build their houses. Noblemen are much more pompous, asking for expanses of land and jewels and ships. 

Jaime’s brother, Tyrion who Elia has a deep affinity for because the boy is frivolous in knowledge and sharp in wit, asks for a book of dragons. He takes it with ample hands. 

And then before anyone can stop her Elia is before her King with Jaime faithfully by her side. She directs a pointed glance towards him, asking of him to allow her a direct view of her valiant husband. 

“Elia,” says Rhaegar devoid of any feeling, “speak what you will.” 

“I have two wishes, your grace,” she begins, careful to keep her voice even. “I had been taken as a girl only to learn of the prejudices held towards my motherland. I’d been faced with scrutiny for the foreignness of my blood and for that I’d bled and burnt because women like me were never made to soar. Ours had never been a tryst of passion but there’d once been a mutual reverence, no matter how you’d neglect your children. How you’d neglect me as if I’d been naught more than a broodmare. I have always been frail of health but I gave you all I had to give. My heart, my home, children born of my womb. My peace of mind. And yet still it hadn’t been enough. I loved a knight once, during the follies of youth, and I’d wanted nothing more than to wed him in spite of his place as a second son. I’ve never wanted a crown, nor have I wanted a husband who embodies impassion and unfeelingness. My children have only ever wanted a father to tell them stories and hold them with unconditional love and yet you’ve given them naught. The Iron Throne is a curse, and I have no wishes to place my darling boy atop it because I will not see him fall to the madness that has claimed you. I will not watch as he withers under the rising sun. So I ask of you to disinherit them, name Aemon as your heir, allow my children to take my name and let me go home.” She says it all so painstakingly raw, uncaring of how she may be perceived. Arthur sends her glances of ardent longing which Elia ignores. 

Rhaegar is initially enraged, features contorting into fury. And then he relents as Varys whispers into his ears. 

And then Jaime rises. 

“I had taken the vows of the kingsguard in hopes of knightly valour and eternal reverence because honour and duty had bowed before me with a rose coloured surface. Protect the innocent, my vows of knighthood said, and yet I’d done naught as the madman who’d been your father — the man I’d slain with no second thought — burned starving smallfolk. As Brandon Stark was murdered in cold blood while his father roasted like chestnuts. Ser Gerold has told me my duty was not to judge the king, and yet what of my duty to Lord Brandon? He’d been innocent. What of my duty to the Queen mother?” Rhaella smiles a sad smile, “who’d been a dearest friend of my mother. I’d dreamt of an unblemished white cloak and yet it’d been coated in invisible blood. My last chance at honour was the task to safeguard Elia and the children. And I’ve done that. Dorne is a land of honour, the Dornish willing to spill their own blood for their Princess save for one man. I have no doubt that Elia will finally be safe for the first time in five years. And so I ask of you to allow me to forsake my vows. I can’t stand this city nor it’s inhabitants. I can’t stand you either, if I’m honest and I’ve been longing to say that but I feared you’d take my head and then who would Elia have to keep her sane? Let me go home.” 

And they go home, the Westerlands and Dorne having developed a much strengthened relationship unable to be severed. Jaime marries Janna Tyrell, his father insistent on having a keen eye over the Reach. He tells her that his wife is a decent companion to have, a sharp wit with the intellect absent within her oaf brother. Elia settles in solitude with her growing babes, surrounded by all her loved ones. And their friendship outlasts all the fallen skies.

**Author's Note:**

> In case it isn’t obvious this is a “story” of one shots mainly during the rebellion because I don’t have it in me to write a whole story on here bc I’d have to think of it all and yada yada yada. So there’s Jaime and Lyanna, Elia yelling at Arthur, Ashara yelling at Arthur, everyone hating Rhaegar and whatnot. Very anti! Robert+Rhaegar for the most part u have been warned.


End file.
